


Wistful and Wandering

by HauntedHotel



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Getting Together, I apple-solutely guarantee it, Light Angst, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Minor Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Multi, Mutual Pining, Reeeeal slow, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris Lives, but we'll get them a happy ending, like if they just had a conversation like grownups there would be no angst, like very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 148,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25527175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HauntedHotel/pseuds/HauntedHotel
Summary: The Losers defeat Pennywise, the Turtle does them all a solid and brings Stan and Eddie back and Richie goes home and tries to fix his life. But when cancelling his tour and coming out publicly leaves him itching to get out of LA – and quitting his job and leaving his wife leaves Eddie itching to get out of New York – Richie suggests they take the road trip they always wanted to take when they were kids. It’s the perfect plan – he gets to run away from his problems for a little while, spend some quality time getting to know his best friend again, and hopefully realize that his crush on Eddie is something safely buried in his past. Hopefully.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 122
Kudos: 215





	1. Gasp

**Author's Note:**

> CW - brief mentions of injuries and Stan's suicide (he's gonna be fine though).

_Gone are the days of begging_

_The days of theft_

_No more gasping for a breath_

_The air has filled me head to toe_

_And I can see the ground far below_

_I have this breath and I hold it tight_

_And I keep it in my chest with all my might_

_I pray to god this breath will last_

_As it pushes past my lips_

_As I…_

_Gasp_

_Gasp_

_Between Two Lungs - Florence and the Machine_

Eddie Kaspbrak is dead.

He knows he is because he remembers dying. He remembers the sudden, piercing pain of Its claw hitting him in the back and tearing out again through his chest. He remembers being ripped away from Richie and flung down the cavern, rolling over on the sharp, jagged rocks until he was sure he could add some broken ribs on top of his gaping chest wound. He remembers the leper, the pharmacy, realizing what needed to be done, _gotta make it small_. He remembers Richie again, pale and shaking and talking, endlessly talking. He remembers talking back, like always — _don’t call me Eds…Richie you know…I…I…_

He doesn’t remember anything else; doesn’t remember what he said next, if he finished the sentence, if Richie was even still there. Distantly, he hopes not — hopes Richie didn’t actually see the light leave his eyes.

As soon as this thought solidifies in Eddie’s mind, he opens his eyes. He closes them again instantly, covering his face with his arm as an extra shield against the blinding light. After a few seconds he tries again, keeping his arm in place over his eyes, blinking rapidly against the fabric of his jacket and lifting his arm bit at a time, letting his eyes adjust. Once he’s sure he’s not going to be blinded, he removes his arm completely and sees the sky — bright and clear and summer blue. The sun is shining warm on his skin, and a light breeze ghosts across his face carrying the fragrance of grass and leaves.

Bracing his hands on the ground, Eddie lifts himself gingerly into a sitting position, and stares at his surroundings in surprise. The scrubby grass and ground dirt path beneath his hands, the coarse undergrowth just hinting at the edges of the thick wooded area that everybody called The Barrens. He knows if he follows the path a little further and looks over that edge he’ll see—

“The quarry…”

He says it out loud without thinking, wincing as it breaks the silence, but that’s definitely where he is. Cautious of the exciting variety of aches and pains gripping every inch of his body, he carefully gets to his feet and inches towards the edge of the cliff. He casts around, making sure he’s still alone, and leans forwards to see into the water.

But there is no water. His stomach gives a sickening lurch and he scrambles backwards, away from the edge, away from the yawning void of black nothing where a shallow pool of questionable water should be. Everything else looks normal; in any other direction the ground stretches further than he can see, the path leading down towards the town like he knows it should, but over the edge of that cliff is nothing but empty space.

Eddie’s knees give out suddenly, and he lands with a thud on the path again, every inch of him trembling. _What the fuck is going on?_ The black abyss waiting at the bottom of the cliff doesn’t seem like a positive sign, but Eddie looks at his very much alive surroundings — there’s plant-life and fresh air and he can even hear birds singing and thinks, _I don’t feel dead._

He remembers everything, remembers getting stabbed right through the chest and—

He lifts the hem of his t-shirt tentatively, one hand slowly sliding past his stomach and up to his chest where there should be a gaping hole, blood, a huge monster’s claw protruding from his ruined body. Instead there’s a wound, pink and raw and splashed with purple and blue bruises that hurt when Eddie applies a little pressure, but it’s a closed. It’s healing, like it happened a week ago. And Eddie is in pain — his head aches and it hurts to breathe as though his ribs recently took a beating and his limbs feel shaky and sore — but he doesn’t feel like he’s dying. And he’s breathing — carefully, his breaths sharp and shallow but he can smell the freshness of the air, feel the breeze and the sun against his skin, and even the pain is reassuring.

This doesn’t feel like he’d imagined death would.

**Eddie Kaspbrak?**

The one hand still braced on the ground slips as Eddie starts in shock, nearly landing him flat on his back.

He doesn’t so much hear the voice as feel the words land in his mind and he looks around wildly. The top of the cliff is still deserted, the only sounds are the breeze rustling the treetops, the birds chirping and his own thudding heartbeat. He starts to twist to his feet, and then his gaze lands on a large rock slightly to the right of him, and he lowers himself shakily back to the ground.

On top of the rock is a turtle. It stares at him with something like focus, attentive intelligence in its small, shiny eyes.

The ghost of a memory floats across Eddie’s mind—

_It’s the Turtle, it’s Maturin but people call it The Turtle, it’s like It but it’s not the same but the Turtle can’t help us now—_

—in Bill’s voice, he thinks, or maybe Mike’s, but when he tries to focus on it, it’s gone, shimmering away like a dream in daylight.

**Eddie Kaspbrak?**

“Yes?” says Eddie tentatively, self-consciously addressing the turtle.

**One of seven?**

“Yes,” he says again, firmly this time. The turtle blinks. “Am I dead?”

**That is one way to describe your condition.**

“I—” Eddie hesitates. “OK. Then...” he scrubs a hand over his face, trying to put his racing thoughts in some kind of order. There are so many things he needs to know — and something tells him the Turtle will have answers — but it’s hard to know where to start.

Then suddenly it isn’t.

“Where are my friends?” he asks. “Are they...are they ok?”

**It takes great courage to defeat the devourer of worlds.**

This doesn’t really answer the question, and Eddie laughs, sharp and bitter.

“Well I hate to tell you this buddy, but you have got the wrong Loser here,” he sighs. “I’m afraid of everything. Like, professionally.”

**Courage is not the absence of fear, but the strength to act in spite of it. At least that is my understanding. I feel no fear, so I can show no true courage, and could not defeat the creature myself. I owe you a great debt.**

“Wait,” Eddie says, rubbing his eyes, waiting for the meaning of the words ringing in his mind to become clear. “Wait, does that mean — they did it? My friends? They...they killed It?”

**Yes.**

“For good, this time?”

**Yes.**

“Did they...did they all get out okay? Did anyone else...”

**They all survived the battle with the creature.**

All the breath leaves his body at once in a sigh; the relief is dizzying. His mind had conjured so many images of his friends eaten alive, buried, crushed under that house. Knowing they’re all alive and safe makes everything else seem unimportant in comparison.

**Would you take it back, if you could?**

“Take what back?”

**Your death.**

“Take it back?” Eddie shakes his head. “No, not if that’s what had to happen for them to kill It and get out okay. No, of course I wouldn’t.”

**You misunderstand me. I am not offering you a trade, I am offering you a miracle.**

“A what?” Eddie laughs slightly.

**As I said, I owe you a great debt. While your friends are still together in Derry, there is still magic there. If I act quickly, your deaths can still be taken back.**

“You mean you can just — I’m sorry, deaths? Deaths, plural?”

Eddie feels the presence before he sees him, but he doesn’t startle this time, isn’t shocked or scared. It’s as if he’s been there the whole time.

“Stanley,” he says softly, as the other man folds his long legs under himself to sit down on the path next to Eddie. He’s a little taller than Eddie, his curls are darker and there are laughter lines around his clever hazel eyes, but he really doesn’t look that different.

“Hi Eddie,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up in that barely-there smile that’s so familiar Eddie feels a lump in his throat. “We busting out of here or what?”

“I…where even is here?”

Stan looks around vaguely, his gaze eventually landing on the turtle.

“It’s like…some kind of cosmic waiting room. We’re between things right now — between living and dead.”

“But we can go back?” says Eddie, looking from Stan to the turtle again.

**Yes. I am old and not as powerful as I once was, but the seven of you have great power. Your friends are in a place of magic and while they are still there, they still believe in magic and miracles. I can use that belief to nudge reality into a different shape, but it must be now. They are so desperately wishing for your return, but the minute even one of them accepts your deaths as permanent, there will be nothing I can do.**

“So sending us back won’t bring back the clown?” says Eddie. “It won’t change what they did?”

He can feel Stan’s gaze burning into the side of his face but he can’t help it. He’s a risk analyst, he needs to know all the facts.

**That is correct.**

“Will we forget again?” he says. “Like we did before, when we left Derry?”

**If you go back, the circle will be remade and the creature’s hold upon you finally broken and you will leave Derry with all your memories. If either one of you chooses not to go back, the circle will remain broken, and your memories will fade again.**

Eddie nods. It’s the answer he expected.

“Why would we choose—” Stan stops talking abruptly as Eddie turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. For a second he just looks — takes in Stan’s handsome face and neat curls and serious eyes — and then smiles, glad he got to see Stan as an adult, at least once.

“You go back,” says Eddie. Stan gapes at him, an expression so shocked and stupid and unlike the Stan that he remembers that Eddie laughs a little.

“What the hell are you — Eddie, we’re both going back.”

Eddie gives Stan’s shoulder a little squeeze and shakes his head.

“I can’t do that to them Stanley. Without even bringing our horror movie childhood into it, everyone saw things this weekend that no one should have to carry round in their heads. No one should have to remember almost being eaten by a clown-monster. Someone has to stay here Stanley, so everyone can move on, and I don’t think it should be you.”

“No…no, Eddie, what the—”

“I don’t know a lot about you Stan — grown-up Stan — but it seemed like you were happy. You miss your wife?” He squeezes again and Stan nods. Eddie smiles. “Then go back to her. You can go back to your wife with none of this shit in your head.”

“No,” Stan stubbornly folds his arms across his chest, now looking so much like his teenage self that Eddie could cry. “No, not a chance. If I go back there alone and I tell everyone else they could have had us both back but I left you in the…fucking… _ghost quarry_ , they’ll never forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself. And it’ll all be for nothing anyway, because Richie will kill me and I’ll end up right back here.”

“Richie…” Eddie closes his eyes for a moment. It hurts to think about Richie for some reason, an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with claws or broken ribs. “Richie won’t remember me to be angry about it, not for long anyway. It’s okay Stan. I think if one of us has to die, it’s probably right that it’s me.”

“What?” Stan looks stricken.

“I just mean…I wasted my whole life worrying about dying, trying to find the right combination of medication or precautions or restrictions to stay alive. And here I am, dead anyway, because it turns out there’s no vaccine for an alien’s claw through the chest. I barely have a life worth going back to Stan, and I don’t have the guts to change any of it. But I was brave, I helped kill a monster, and now I can make sure that monster doesn’t literally live in all your heads anymore. There are worse ways to die Stan, and there are worse things to die for than all your best friends.”

Stan looks at him seriously. There are tears in his eyes — one of them trailing down his cheek — but he says nothing, and Eddie thinks he might be wavering. When it reaches Stan’s jaw, Eddie lifts his hand to brush the tear away.

“Just…” he offers Stan a smile. “Just tell them I love them, okay?”

Stan hesitates for a moment, and then shoves Eddies hand away from his face.

“No! No fucking way Eddie! if you’re not going back, I’m not going back.”

“Stan—”

“Or I will go back, and I’ll never leave Derry, so I never forget. And I’m going to buy twenty-five Ouija boards and have them running around the clock so you never get a minute’s peace. I’m gonna get Richie to stay in Derry with me — and you know he will — and you’ll spend your entire afterlife plagued with Ouija board jokes from Richie. Is that what you want?”

Eddie thinks Stan might have been trying to be funny, but he’s openly crying by the time he finishes, and Eddie leans towards him and wraps his arms around Stan’s shaking shoulders. Stan clings to him.

“I’m so sorry Eddie,” he sobs into Eddie’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I really thought if I took myself out of the game that—”

“Stop it,” says Eddie firmly, giving Stan a squeeze. “Don’t even think it, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. None of this shit was your fault.”

“Please don’t make me go back alone. I don’t want to have to tell them you aren’t coming with me.”

Eddie sighs, and pulls away.

“All those memories Stanley,” he says. “Do you think Bev wants to remember nearly drowning in a sewer? Or Ben wants to remember being buried alive? The clown took another kid just to kill him in front of Bill—”

“And I cut my wrists open in a bathtub and bled to death,” says Stan, so sharply it makes Eddie flinch away from him, “and I don’t want to forget. I can live with that, with all the bad stuff, if I get to keep you guys. Don’t you think it’s worth it? A few nightmares in exchange for all your best friends back?”

“I—”

**Our window is closing.**

They both jump, the turtle forgotten.

**You have very little time. If you are going back, you must do so now.**

Eddie and Stan look at each other.

“Please Eddie.”

Eddie looks at the stubborn set of his jaw, the tears still streaming down his face and sighs. Nods. He stands up, and offers both hands to Stan, hauling him to his feet.

“What do we have to do?” asks Stanley. The turtle turns slowly on the rock, until it’s facing the cliff edge.

**Take a leap.**

Eddie shudders, thinking of that blank void below them, and is grateful when Stan doesn’t let go of his hand as they make their way towards the edge. Stan lets out a sigh as he leans forward slightly.

“Of course it’s something terrifying.” He looks at Eddie. “You first.”

**No. You must leave this place in the same order in which you arrived.**

Stan closes his eyes, a knot of frustration between his eyebrows, and Eddie smiles, imagining the colorful litany of curses probably going unsaid.

“Eddie.” He opens his eyes. “Eddie, I swear to god…”

“Go Stanley,” says Eddie softly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Stanley stands right on the edge, and then looks back at Eddie. Eddie laughs.

“I promise.”

Stan, looking profoundly unhappy, gives his hand a squeeze and lets go. He stares down into the void for a second, and then jumps. Eddie gasps reflexively, and leans over the edge to see, but nothing has changed, just the same blank space.

“I could save them all that pain, all that trauma,” he says, looking down at the turtle. “I’m doing the selfish thing aren’t I? By going back?”

**You are remaking the circle. You belong to each other now.**

Eddie’s eyes flood with tears, and he nods.

_It’ll be okay if we have each other. We were weak before because we were apart. If we’re back together, if I have all my friends back, maybe I can—_

**They are waiting for you, Eddie Kaspbrak.**

Eddie steps up to the edge of the cliff, and doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes tightly closed. He doesn’t think about the clown; doesn’t think about Derry, or New York, or Myra. He thinks about Stan. Thinks about Bill and Mike, Bev and Ben. He thinks about Richie.

_Be brave, be brave, be brave._

He takes a deep breath, and jumps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	2. The Pull of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s alive. Eddie Kaspbrak is alive.
> 
> Richie lurches forward clumsily and wraps his hands around Eddie’s biceps.
> 
> “Eddie…” His voice is low and desperate as he speaks for the first time since screaming himself hoarse outside of Neibolt. Eddie gives him a tentative smile.
> 
> “It’s okay Rich,” he says softly. “I’m okay. It’s all gonna be okay now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW - allusions to suicide and injury, mentions of a panic attack.

_Something’s leaving me behind_

_It’s just a feeling in my mind_

_What was it you always said?_

_We’re connected by a thread_

_If we’re ever far apart_

_I’ll still feel the pull of you_

_The Pull of You - The National_

Water trickles down from his damp hair underneath the collar of his soaked t-shirt and sun is directly overhead, burning down on the exposed skin at the back of his neck as he leans forward and presses his face into his hands and Richie feels none of it.

He grits his teeth, trying to force the sobs back down his throat, and screws his eyes tightly closed. He’s not wearing his glasses — they’re at the mercy of the grimy quarry water now — so he can’t see very clearly anyway, but if he keeps his eyes closed he can pretend none of it ever happened, that the sound of his friends laughing and shouting isn’t hacking him apart, that he doesn’t notice the one ten-to-the-dozen voice that’s missing. It’s not really working. After twenty-four years Richie got him back for two days and now…

They just left him down there. Left him behind in the dark and the cold, buried in filth and sewage under that house, along with whatever was left of the clown. Richie's stomach swirls with dull nausea and he fights back the urge to vomit. He’s thrown up so much this weekend, it’s gotta stop, there’s nothing _left_.

He coughs a little, and distantly registers his friends swimming closer. There are arms around him and quiet voices close by murmuring meaningless words, and everybody lost Eddie but everybody is comforting Richie which means everybody _knows_. They all loved Eddie, but Richie was the one screaming and sobbing like the world had ended, the one who had fought desperately to stay under that house and be buried right alongside him. It’s Richie who hasn’t looked any of them in the eye since they dragged him away from the sinkhole that used to be the Neibolt house and hasn’t said a word the whole time either. He might never say a single fucking thing again — what would be the point? What’s the point in cracking jokes if it’s not to hear Eddie’s laugh? What’s the point in talking trash if it’s not to get Eddie’s face all scrunchy and pink with annoyance? The past twenty-four years without him has been fucking pointless and now—

So fine…they all know. They all know that Richie loves Eddie, and not the way the rest of the Losers do. Richie’s in love with him, and all his friends know, and here they all are with their arms around him anyway. And Jesus Christ, did he really think that this was his worst fear? That having the people he loves most really truly know him was ever going to be scary? Stupid. Really fucking stupid, now he knows what real fear feels like, now he’s had Eddie’s blood splashed across his face, had Eddie ripped from his arms, seen the light leave Eddie’s eyes. He’d stand on a stage in front of a million people and sing a musical number about it now if it would bring Eddie back.

But nothing is bringing Eddie back. He’s dead, and so is the clown, so there’s no more magic left in Derry, no more miracles. They need to get out of this water, out of this haunted fucking town, and as someone presses his glasses into his hand he thinks, _I hope I forget again, I hope I fucking forget everything…_

Then the surface of the water breaks. There’s a splash, Bev screams, the arms around him disappear and he nearly blinds himself trying to get his glasses back on. Through his cracked and dripping lenses he can see the Losers still gathered loosely around him, but they’re not looking at him anymore, they’re looking at the new figure that’s just joined them in the water. They’re looking at—

“Stanley?”

It’s Bev who speaks first, her voice so quiet and shaky that Richie only hears her because she’s pressed right up to him. She moves forward slightly but Mike and Ben both grab for her, holding her in place.

“We killed It,” says Ben. “Didn’t we? I…I _felt_ it.” He looks desperately at Mike. “What is this?”

Mike is staring at…well…at _Stan_. It is Stan — Richie has never seen him as an adult, none of them have, aside from Bev in her visions — but there’s no mistaking him. He’s staring at them all with a strange expression on his face, pushing his dripping curls out of his eyes and looking for all the world like he wants to laugh at them.

“I’m not the clown,” he says, all but rolling his eyes, the exasperation on his face poking at Richie’s memories of the same expression on a much younger Stan.

“How…” Mike stops, staring at Bill, seemingly for guidance. Bill eases forwards towards Stan, staring at him intently.

“Stan?” He holds his hand out tentatively, but Stan grabs it without hesitation, and pulls Bill into a hug. Bill seems to freeze for a second, and then wraps his arms around Stan’s shoulders. The other Losers stare at each other for a second, and then Bill laughs into Stan’s shoulder, and the tension is suddenly broken. Bev is the first to join the hug but eventually Richie is swept up with all the others as they converge on Stan in an awkward, many-limbed embrace.

“Okay, okay,” says Stan after a few minutes. “I am not dead, which means I actually need to be able to breathe.”

They let him go, but not far, gathering around him in a loose semi-circle. He smiles around at them, and he’s Richie’s oldest friend and they haven’t seen each other in more than twenty years, and Richie was fucking devastated when they had found out what Stan had done, and Richie loves Stan, he does. But at the back of his mind — flying through his veins with his heartbeat — is still the tiny spark of a thought, a hope. _If Stanley’s here, does that mean…_

“Stan, what the hell?” Bill still hasn’t let go of him, one of his hands still gripping Stan’s shoulder. “What happened? How are you…” he hesitates, “how are you here?”

“It’s a long story,” says Stan. “Or…I guess it’s not, but it’s definitely a weird one. I’ll tell you, but first…” He looks around, tense and impatient, like he’s lost something he suspects they might be hiding from him. He pushes his hair away from his face again; his hands are shaking. “Where the fuck is Eddie?”

All the other Losers glance at Richie; he can feel the weight of all that attention land on him like a spotlight. He winces. It hurts to even hear Eddie’s name — it lances through him again, white-hot and fresh.

“He said he was right behind me,” Stan says, his voice quiet, talking more to himself than them. “If he stayed behind, I swear to God—”

But the surface of the water breaks again before Stan can finish his sentence, his voice cut off in a flurry of splashing and swearing as a new figure is running his mouth the minute he’s above the water.

“—fucking turtle didn’t think to mention we’d re-spawn under the water? In the goddamn quarry? Oh my god, my mouth was open and everything, I’ve swallowed so much dirty water I can actually _taste_ the cholera. I think I’m gonna—” He cuts himself off with a surprised little laugh as Stan drags him into an aggressive looking hug and _oh god_ , that’s his voice. That’s his foghorn, motor-mouth voice, and Bill is elbowing Stan out of the way to get Eddie in his arms, but Richie can hardly bear to look at them. If he looks it’ll all be over — he won’t see Eddie, he’ll see some twisted, nightmare version of Eddie, conjured by the clown they failed to kill, and they’ll have to try again while It wears the face of Richie’s dead best friend.

Richie’s distantly aware of Eddie being passed from Loser to Loser, can hear all their voices now — fast and frantic — as he and Stan talk over each other to explain themselves. The quarry, a miracle, something about a _turtle_. Richie should be listening properly; should pay attention, tell a joke, engage with the conversation, do anything that will stop them glancing at him carefully the way he can still feel that they are.

Stan’s the first to start complaining about the water, and as he heads towards the shore the other Losers peel off one by one and follow him, until Richie knows it’s just him and Eddie left, the surface of the water rippling as Eddie wades a little closer.

“Rich?” Richie closes his eyes. If he doesn’t look, he’ll never have to see the illusion fall apart, never have to face the clown version of Eddie, or see that he’s alone in the water.

Then there’s a hand on his arm, gripping him around the wrist, warm and strong and real.

“Rich, y’okay?”

Richie opens his eyes, and there he fucking is. His doe-eyes look huge in his pale, tired face and his hair is a mess, the immaculate parting given way to damp curls that stick out from his face at all angles. He’s close enough that Richie can see him shivering a little when the wind picks up, can see the goose bumps trailing up his arms…can see him breathing.

He’s alive. Eddie Kaspbrak is alive.

Richie lurches forward clumsily and wraps his hands around Eddie’s biceps.

“Eddie…” His voice is low and desperate as he speaks for the first time since screaming himself hoarse outside of Neibolt. Eddie gives him a tentative smile.

“It’s okay Rich,” he says softly. “I’m okay. It’s all gonna be okay now.”

Richie screws his eyes closed again, fighting back tears, but suddenly Eddie’s arms are around his shoulders, squeezing tightly and Richie stops fighting. Eddie runs one hand up and down Richie’s back soothingly and the other cradles the back of his head, and Richie buries his face against Eddie’s neck.

“You were dead,” he sobs into Eddie’s skin. “You were _dead._ ”

“I know,” Eddie shushes him gently. “I know Rich, but I’m okay now I promise.” He eases himself out of Richie’s arms, wraps his hands around Richie’s wrists and tugs gently. “Come on, let’s…let’s get out of this water.” He lets go and turns towards the shore, wading away from Richie and Richie can’t bear it. He grabs for Eddie’s arm again, frantic and too tight. Eddie looks down at Richie’s death grip around his wrist in quiet surprise, but when Richie moves to let go, Eddie tangles their fingers together and gently tows Richie towards the shore. He’s shaking as Eddie helps him out of the water towards where the other Losers are sitting on the grass, drying out in the midday sun, Stan huddled safely in the middle of them.

“Are you guys seriously just gonna sit there and marinate in the filth we’re all soaked in?” Eddie starts immediately, and the other Losers collapse laughing. “God, I’ve never needed a shower so badly in my life. Don’t fucking look at me like that Bill, get _up_.”

Richie can hear them teasing Eddie, can hear Eddie snap and lecture and eventually laugh as they all haul themselves to their feet and start moving, but all of it seems very foggy and far away. The only thing that seems real is the feeling of Eddie’s fingers in between his, holding on tight and not letting go.

***

They don’t talk the entire walk back to the Townhouse. The adrenaline and relief start to fade and the exhaustion sets in instead, and by the time they’re trudging up the stairs to their respective rooms Bill is limping slightly, Bev is leaning heavily against Ben and all Richie wants to do is lie down in the dark, have a cathartic cry and then sleep for twenty-four hours solid. Bill silently leads both Stan and Mike into his own room, Bev and Ben disappear through the same door, and Richie isn’t letting go of Eddie’s hand until he’s forced to, so he finds himself dragged along behind him.

Eddie stops so abruptly on the threshold of his room that Richie bumps into his back, peering over Eddie’s shoulder to see what’s caught his attention. Eddie steps into the room slowly, and his fingers reflexively tighten in Richie’s. Richie squeezes back.

They follow a trail of dark, tacky blood across the dull cream carpet and into the bathroom, which is littered with broken glass, the shower curtain hanging from the rail and fluttering gently in the breeze from the smashed window.

_Bowers…_

He glances down at Eddie, sees his pale face and wide eyes, and tugs at his hand, leading him back into the bedroom.

“Eddie,” he coaxes. “Eds, grab your stuff and come use my bathroom okay? You can’t—” He tugs again, Eddie staring dazedly at the blood on the floor. “It’s not safe, you can’t shower in here. Eddie!” Eddie finally looks up and seems to come back to reality. He shudders slightly, and then looks down at their joined hands, a frown briefly creasing his forehead. Richie lets go and turns to grab one of Eddie’s massive suitcases. Eddie hesitates for a second, and then grabs the other one.

“What about…?” Richie looks over at a smaller case resting on the bed. Eddie’s mouth thins into an unhappy line as he follows Richie gaze, then he shakes his head sharply, and heads out of the door. Richie leads him down the corridor and into his own room, and as soon as he closes the door behind them, some of the tension seems to bleed out of Eddie. His shoulders drop a little and the frown eases. He looks at the bathroom door, and then raises his eyebrows at Richie.

“Can I?”

“Go for it, Eds.”

“Thanks,” Eddie sighs, delving into one of the suitcases and coming up with a hefty looking washbag before he disappears into the bathroom. The hiss of the shower starts up immediately — like a soothing white noise machine — and Richie leans against the wall and slides onto the floor. He shoves his glasses up into his hair, closes his eyes and lowers his forehead onto his knees, the fabric of his jeans damp and clammy against his skin, ripe with quarry water and the low stink of the sewers.

_The sewers, where they left Eddie, buried like garbage—_

His eyes snap open again. He lifts his head.

No.

Eddie is right fucking there, probably making everyone else’s showers run cold as he scrubs the top layer of his skin off in boiling water. He’s in Richie’s bathroom, in Richie’s shower, as safe and sound as anyone ever is in Derry. He’s not bleeding, not buried under rubble, not staring at Richie with his warm brown eyes turned blank and glassy and _empty_.

Richie rubs his face, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until little points of light begin to burst beneath his eyelids, dissolving the images he knows he’s not getting rid of any time soon. Eddie’s death playing in vivid technicolor, never to be forgotten because he’s watched it happen twice, once in reality and once in the mind-fuck horror show of the deadlights. He got a fucking warning, saw exactly what was going to happen before it did and he still wasn’t fast enough, still couldn’t save his best friend, the love of his—

_Oh god._

Impossible. Fucking ludicrous. It’s been _twenty-four years_ , he can’t still be in love with someone he hasn’t seen in more than two decades, especially someone who’s married — to a woman — and who’s whole life exists three-thousand miles away from Richie’s.

There’s a painful lump in his throat from fighting back tears but fuck it, he’s done being a hero this weekend. He buries his face in his hands and lets himself fall apart, just a little. He stays quiet, little gasping sobs escaping into his filthy, bloody hands until he stops shaking and can breathe a little easier.

He’s too old for this shit. Too old to be fighting monsters, too old to be curled around himself crying, too old to be left breathless by the drowning brown eyes of Eddie Kaspbrak.

He needs to get a grip. Eddie’s alive — that’s the important thing — and if Richie can’t forget the feeling of Eddie’s fingers tangled with his well, it’s Richie’s problem, not Eddie’s.

He takes a deep breath, wipes his face and knocks his glasses back into place, just in time for the bathroom door to open again and release a plume of fragrant steam into the room, followed closely by a half-dressed Eddie.

Richie closes his eyes again, just for a second, just to get himself under control.

“You ok Rich?” says Eddie, his voice all soft and concerned.

“I’m good Eds,” he says. “Contemplating having a little nap on the carpet though.”

Eddie huffs, and Richie risks opening his eyes, just a little. Eddie’s got his back to Richie, digging around in his suitcase, and Richie tries not to focus on the shifting play of muscles in his shoulders, the clench of biceps in his surprisingly powerful arms. He’s got a towel slung low around his narrow waist, resting just below two little dimples in his lower back, his skin still beaded with moisture from his shower. There’s a smaller towel draped across one shoulder; he must have been using it to dry his hair, because it’s ruffled and untidy and Richie wants to run his hands through it so badly they’re shaking again. Eddie turns and Richie catches a glimpse of his stomach — slender and toned; he’s not built like Ben but there’s definition — before his attention wanders up to Eddie’s chest, and a gasp catches in his throat.

Eddie glances at him in concern, but his expression clears when he sees what Richie’s looking at.

“I know,” he says, running a thumb self-consciously across the starburst wound marring his smooth chest, resting just between his pectorals. “It’s pretty bad, right?”

Richie shakes his head, standing up.

“No Eds, it’s…” he looks from his chest to his face. “It’s healed. It looks…it looks like it happened weeks ago. I mean I…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I was expecting, obviously there wasn’t still going to be—” He cuts himself off, the memory of the blood soaking through his leather jacket drawing a shudder across his shoulders.

“It’s getting better by the minute,” says Eddie. “Literally. When I first woke up in the…place…where I met Stan…”

“The Magic Turtle Quarry,” says Richie seriously, earning a reluctant smile.

“Yes. When I first woke up there it was still bleeding — just a little — but I was fucking covered in bruises, but now…”

The scar tissue — because that’s what it is, Richie realises, a _scar_ — is pink and raised, but the skin around it is clear and healthy and completely bruise free. He reaches out to touch without thinking and draws his hand back immediately in panic, but Eddie just smiles.

“S’ok,” he says. “Doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Richie presses his fingertips softly to that raised firework of flesh; Eddie’s skin is warm and wet from the shower, and he feels so real under Richie’s hand.

“Turn around,” says Richie softly. Eddie raises an eyebrow at him but turns obediently, and Richie lifts the little hand towel from his shoulder, revealing the matching scar on his back. It’s bigger than the one on his chest — Richie presses his hand flat against it, and Eddie shivers slightly under his touch — but it’s just as clean and healthy and healed. Eddie turns to face him, and Richie feels tears sting his eyes again.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he whispers. “I can’t believe this is real. I can’t believe—” His gaze settles on Eddie’s chest again, now completely uncovered, and when Eddie realises what’s caught his attention he raises his eyes to the ceiling and sighs deeply. “Edward Kaspbrak,” Richie exclaims in delight, “do you have a _tattoo_?”

Eddie shoves him and turns away but it’s too late to hide it. There it is on his left pectoral, just above his nipple; a black star about the size of Richie’s palm. Richie throws the back of his hand against his forehead, swooning back down onto the carpet.

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, snatching his little towel out of Richie’s hand, although he doesn’t cover up again. Richie sits up straight and grins up at Eddie, who scowls ferociously. “Fuck all the way off and keep fucking going. Whatever hilarious opinion you have, I don’t want to hear it.”

Richie’s got opinions coming out of his ears, although _hilarious_ isn’t exactly the word for them. It’s not like he hadn’t noticed that Eddie had grown up handsome, with his dimples and his big dark eyes and his lean, angular face. It was pretty much all he’d been able to think about during their dinner at Jade of the Orient, up until their dessert attacked them anyway. But how is he ever supposed to look Eddie in the eye now he knows what he’s hiding under his polo-shirt-and-chinos outfits — defined abs and strong thighs and a tattoo?

God, he’s gorgeous.

“I just can’t believe you, Eddie Kaspbrak, let some no-good punk stick you up with a dirty needle just so—”

“Shut up Richie!” Eddie squawks, but he’s laughing now. “I got it done at a very nice studio in Manhattan, not in the back of a van at Lollapalooza.”

“Did you hyperventilate the entire time?”

“Fuck you,” says Eddie cheerfully. “And yes, pretty much.”

“Then why? I can’t see thirteen-year-old Eddie approving of this.”

“I’ve done a lot of thing thirteen-year-old Eddie wouldn’t approve of,” he says, enigmatically, and then sighs. “I had this…friend? In college, and we wanted to get them done together but when it came to it, I freaked out and nearly couldn’t go through with it. I really wanted to though, and he knew that, so he kind of teased me and annoyed me and made me forget I was scared.”

Eddie’s expression is soft as he turns away and starts tugging clothes from his suitcase, and Richie’s sick with envy. _That should’ve been me, I’m your annoying best friend who teased you and challenged you and pushed you to do things I knew you were secretly desperate to do. Fuck this shitty town and fuck that monster for taking you away from me._

Richie forces the thought away — what good does it do now, to get angry about all that’s been taken from them, all that time wasted? He’s got Eddie back now, and he’s not letting him go again.

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice drags him back to reality. Richie looks up at him — fully dressed in fitted blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is dry now, uncombed and un-styled, falling into his face in soft little waves. He crouches down so that his face is level with Richie’s, and his expression is one of such gentle concern that Richie has to look away before he does something stupid. “Rich…” Eddie’s voice is close and quiet, and Richie wants to touch him with a desperation so fresh it’s straight from the heart of his thirteen-year-old self. He looks up, and Eddie’s expression turns pleading. “Rich, I’m actually _begging_ you to take your turn in the shower.”

***

They all end up in Bill’s room.

Bill sends a message to their brand-new group chat to let them know, and once Richie is showered and dressed he and Eddie head down the hall and knock on Bill’s door. Ben answers, and as he moves aside to let them in Stan lets out a loud sigh from his place on the bed next to Bev.

“And I was so enjoying the peace and quiet,” he says, although he smiles. Bev holds her arms out towards Eddie and he laughs softly as he crosses the room, sits down next to her on the faded floral coverlet and allows her to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Bev’s freckles stand out stark on her pale skin and there are purple smudges underneath her eyes. Her expression is tense when she eventually lets Eddie free of her hug, and she keeps one hand on his arm, the other on Stan’s knee protectively. Richie thinks maybe he isn’t the only one worried their miracle might not be permanent. She glances up at Richie as he closes the door behind him and gives him a wan smile.

Richie drops into an armchair next to the bed, Ben takes the one by the window. Bill is lying on the scrubby beige carpet, one arm over his face and his legs in Mike’s lap.

They’re passing around a couple of bottles of wine that Bev apparently pilfered from the still-deserted bar downstairs and a variety of scrounged up snacks. Richie glances at Eddie to see his reaction to this communal picnic, but he takes the bottle Mike offers up to him and swigs from it without complaint, passing it to Stan and then pressing his cheek against Bev’s hair.

Richie had hardly had chance to register Eddie’s death as permanent before he’d reappeared in the quarry, but it still feels like a miracle just to be looking at him, so as everyone settles back into hushed conversation Richie drinks in the sight — Eddie’s un-styled hair curling at his temples, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles at something Stan says to him, the soft expression on his face as he drops an easy kiss to the top of Bev’s head. Eventually he forces himself to look away, but his stomach swoops when his gaze lands on Stan, looking between Richie and Eddie with his eyes narrowed shrewdly. Panic swirls in Richie’s gut — it’s _Stan_ , who never said much but saw everything, and who knew Richie maybe better than anyone, and he’s got that expression on his face like he’s working something out. His attention finally settles on Richie, and he raises his eyebrows just a little. Richie shakes his head very slightly, silently begging Stan not to open his damn mouth and ruin Richie’s life, but before either of them can say anything Mike clears his throat.

“So — Stan…Eddie,” he says, drawing everyone’s attention and Richie could honestly kiss him for it, “are you going to tell us what happened?”

Ben shifts in his armchair, Bill uncovers his eyes and sits up, Stan and Eddie exchange a glance.

“We told you in the quarry,” Stan says. “The turtle brought us back.”

“Ah, such a wonderful storyteller Stanley,” Richie coos. “You should be the one writing bestsellers.”

“You guys brought us back,” Eddie says, before Stan can snap at Richie. “That’s what the turtle said anyway. He said he wasn’t so powerful anymore, but he could do it because you guys wanted us back so bad.”

Stan nods.

“You did something he couldn’t when you killed It,” he says, “so he brought us back in return.”

“Easy as that?” says Richie. It comes out sharper than intended and everyone looks at him in surprise. He gives an awkward shrug but doesn’t say what he can’t help but think — since when do things go right for any of them? But then Eddie leans towards him to gently knock their elbows together.

“Wasn’t easy Rich,” he says quietly, and Bev nods.

“Yeah, I think we more than fucking earned a turn on the winning team.” She reaches around Eddie to ruffle Richie’s hair, dragging a smile out of him.

“Damn right we did,” says Ben, raising the wine bottle in a toast. “To the Loser’s Club!”

It feels like a slumber party. They get louder and looser as they drink the wine and relax in each other’s company, trading places around the room to drift in and out of each other’s conversations. At one point Bev excuses herself for a cigarette break and Richie goes with her, shaking his head at her offer to share, but poking and teasing and talking until she brightens a little, and by the time he’s dragging her back inside her eyes are gleaming again.

Back in the room, she doesn’t hesitate to curl up in the armchair next to Ben and he wraps one arm around her shoulders easily. Stan is still on the bed — joined by Bill now — and Mike is in the armchair Richie had been sitting in. Eddie is on the floor, leaning against the wall and sitting cross-legged in a way that makes Richie’s knees ache just looking at him. For a moment he’s tempted to plant his ass in Eddie’s lap, just to see the look on his face. He’s seconds away from doing it when he feels Stan’s gaze burning into the back of his head, and sits on the floor next to Eddie instead, shoulder to shoulder.

“What are we talking about?” Bev asks sleepily, her head pillowed on Ben’s solid shoulder.

“Catching Stan up on what he missed,” says Mike, and Stan rolls his eyes.

“I can’t believe my token was a shower cap.”

“What did you want us to do Stan, go shoot down a pigeon for you?” Eddie says, making Richie cackle.

“I genuinely can’t believe you went back into the clubhouse,” Stan says, ignoring Eddie. “It’s a miracle it’s still standing, no offence Ben,” Stan smiles a little. “What other junk was down there?”

“The remains of my paddle-ball,” Ben says, mournfully. “You owe me three dollars _Eddie_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie waves his hand dismissively. “Like it would bankrupt you to replace it now, Mr Millionaire Architect. Besides,” Eddie smiles sweetly. “Stanley broke it, with his face.”

Stan scowls at him, but Richie snorts with laughter.

“You were such a little shit Eddie,” he says. “How did every adult in this stupid town think I was the devil and you were a sweet little choirboy?”

“It’s because I was Rich,” he says, making his eyes go wide and innocent. Richie puts one hand over Eddie’s face.

“Don’t you turn those fucking high beams on me Kaspbrak,” he says, as Eddie wrestles his hand away. “That’s probably what did it, the doe-eyes and dimples combo.”

“Yeah,” Bev says with a grin, “plus he hung around with you. Maybe you just made him look better by comparison.”

“He also hung around with Stan and Mike,” Richie protests, “and he was feral compared to them.”

“I was not _feral_ ,” Eddie splutters indignantly.

“Feral,” Richie says firmly. “Little and cute, but feral. Like a raccoon.”

Eddie gives a snuffly laugh, but quickly schools his face into something closer to disapproval, digging his pointy elbow into Richie’s ribs.

“I don’t know,” Mike says. “I mean, obviously we did all hang out together, but you two…” he tails off with a nostalgic smile, but Richie bristles.

“Us two what?” he says defensively.

“You were, you know,” Mike shrugs, “Richie and Eddie.” He says their names all together, like one word, like two parts of a matched set and Richie feels himself blushing.

“You did kind of orbit each other,” Bev says.

Richie risks a glance down at Eddie, who is absently picking at the label on the wine bottle in his lap and relaxes a little. It’s a nice way for Bev to put it at least — orbiting each other — as though it were a two-way thing, reciprocal, not just Richie trailing around after Eddie, shouting and shoving and willing to set himself on fire to get Eddie’s attention.

“We could go back to the clubhouse,” Ben says. “In the morning maybe, if we have time. The clubhouse was always safe, wasn’t it? Not just from Bowers and his gang, but the clown never got at any of us while we were in there.”

This is true — as far as Richie knows — and Ben is making a good point about something that is very important to all of them, but Richie is suddenly gripped by the wild urge to laugh as something floats to the surface of his murky childhood memories.

That summer had faded into fall and they had just started to relax again, roaming the streets as they had done before without constantly looking over their shoulders for monsters. He and Eddie had been walking past the alley at the back of the department store and spotted an abandoned mannequin, stopping to stare at it and then stare at each other, and Stan would have rolled his eyes and Ben would have worried about getting into trouble and Bill would have advised against it, but Eddie was all gleaming eyes and wicked little grin and _do you know what would be funny_? So they’d pooled the coins in their pockets to buy a Halloween face-paint kit and cheap orange wig, dragged the mannequin to the clubhouse, slung it into the hammock with its fresh Pennywise makeover and waited. Eventually Stan and Ben had come down the ladder, and Ben had shrieked, and Stan had shrieked and fallen on Ben and Richie had genuinely thought he might _die_ from how hard he was laughing at them.

He wants to know if Eddie remembers this, but the idea of asking out loud in front of everyone and getting a blank stare or Eddie telling him _grow up, it’s not funny anymore_ stings for some reason, even if Stan or Ben remembers. He wants to beam the question directly into Eddie’s head, but when he risks a glance over at him, Eddie is already looking back, a smile just beginning to tease at his lips, as though he knows exactly what Richie’s thinking. It's the same goddamn expression he’d worn back then and Richie’s stomach does an embarrassing little flip.

A smile starts to spread over his own face before he can help it, and he knows it’s probably telling Eddie everything, maybe he _should_ tell Eddie everything because God knows no one else has ever looked at Richie like that, and his breath catches in his throat just for a second. Then Stan scoffs and Eddie looks away and Richie’s jaw clenches around words he can’t just spit out like that.

“No,” Stan says sternly, folding his arms and looking at them both like a disapproving teacher one more giggling fit away from banishing them to opposite sides of a classroom. “Do not fucking look at each other like that.”

“Like what Stanley?” asks Eddie, innocently.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about Stan,” Richie agrees, already looking back at Eddie, who is giving Richie an inside-joke smile so soft it takes him all his willpower not to lean down and kiss it right off his face in front of all of their friends.

“Like _that_ ,” Stan insists. “The only thing worse than listening to you torment each other was you teaming up to torment everyone else. I did _not_ come back from the dead for this,” he sighs, dramatic and put upon. Bev breaks first, peals of laughter filling the room, the empty building, this godawful town, and as the others join in Richie closes his eyes and lets it fill him too.

An hour later and Richie is exhausted, leaning heavily against Eddie, his cheek an inch away from the top of Eddie’s head. Everyone is talking softly about tomorrow and Richie’s trying not to listen. They’ve all got flights booked and they’ve all got lives to go back to. _Richie’s_ got a life to go back to, or he’s got tour dates in Reno and a manager that will yell at him if he isn’t there, which is almost the same thing. It’s fine, they’re all adults and they haven’t been part of each other’s lives for a really long time, but Richie can’t picture them all going their separate ways tomorrow without panic clawing at his throat.

“What will you do Stan?” Bill asks and Stan sighs.

“Go home,” he says. “I can’t...it’s not something I can tell Patty about over the phone.”

“You’re going to tell her?” asks Ben, his voice free from judgement, all innocent curiosity and concern. “Like, the truth?”

“Yes,” says Stan. “I owe her the truth after...after what I did. She deserves to know why.”

“She’s gonna have you fucking committed Stanley,” Richie yawns.

“Well her husband coming back from the dead after two days should be pretty convincing,” says Stan, with a wry sort of smile. “And I can always call you guys for back-up.”

“Oh sure,” says Eddie, “the word of idiot comedian Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier is definitely gonna convince her you’re not crazy.”

“Whereas Eddie just _projects_ sane energy,” Richie counters. Eddie holds up his middle finger right against Richie’s face, but he’s biting back a smile. Thirteen-year-old Richie would have wrestled Eddie to the ground for less, but Stan is still watching them cagily, so he contents himself with batting Eddie’s hand away.

“I could go with you,” says Mike suddenly. “I mean — if you want.” He looks sheepish, as all the Losers turn to him, but his face is determined. “I know a lot about the clown by now, and I’ve never left Derry before, it's be nice to have some company on my first time away. Besides, I feel like I kind of owe you and Patty after—"

“No,” says Stan abruptly. “If I’m not allowed to apologise then you’re not allowed to feel bad about any of it either. I would really appreciate that Mikey, thank you.”

Mike smiles, but it wavers across his face hesitantly, and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I um...” He stares around at them all and takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to say I’m really grateful that you came back and that you took my calls and that you’re all still here. You didn’t have to, none of you had to come back here but I’m really glad you did. I've...really missed you guys, I’m so happy to have you all back.”

Richie’s floored, and judging by the silence that follows, he isn’t the only one. Even Bill has lifted his head from his knees to stare up at him, so strange is the sight of calm, composed Mike on the verge of falling apart. They’re all frozen, none of them knowing what to do, and Richie desperately wants to make a joke to break the tension, but before he can manage it Eddie’s twisted to his feet and crossed the room to wrap his arms around Mike’s shoulders, perching on the arm of the chair. Mike winds an arm easily around Eddie’s narrow waist and Richie bites back a nauseous surge of envy.

“You’re a goddam hero Mike,” says Eddie, and Mike laughs wetly.

“Me?” He looks up at Eddie. “I didn’t throw a fence post through Its face.”

“You stayed,” Eddie says firmly. “You stayed in this haunted fucking town when you never owed Derry shit. And you had to remember us and everything that happened, and deal with it by yourself and then call us back even though you knew we might not come, and then you had to listen to us be massive shitheads about it even though we promised—"

“Eddie!” Mike laughs, hugging him tightly with the arm still around his waist. “Breathe, man.”

“I just...we killed a bajillion year old _actual monster_ today and we could never have done it without you.” He rests his cheek against the top of Mike’s head — the same way he had with Bev, the same way Richie’s been tempted to do with him all night — and Mike smiles softly.

“Thanks Eddie,” he says, and the venomous threads of jealousy starting to curl inside Richie’s stomach at the easy contact between them evaporate suddenly. He heaves himself up off the floor and follows Eddie to hug Mike, draping himself over both of them and starting a similar hug-pile to the one in the quarry, but relief and comfort in the place of panic and adrenaline, and as Eddie’s arm winds around his waist and squeezes, Richie thinks that maybe they’ll find a way to be okay.

None of them last much longer after that, and when Bill announces that he’s going to bed and unceremoniously orders them out of his room, Richie heaves himself to his feet gratefully. Mike and Stan stay in Bill’s room for some kind of impromptu sleepover, and Richie briefly catches Bev’s eye as she follows Ben into his, shooting her a quick thumbs up. She grins widely and tips him a wink. Richie heads into his own room and is about to ask Eddie if he wants first use of the bathroom, when he notices that Eddie’s shoving stuff back into his suitcases and zipping them closed.

“What're you doing?”

Eddie looks at him blankly.

“Grabbing my stuff?” he says, heaving both huge suitcases off Richie’s bed and pulling up the handles.

Oh. Stupid. He’d been so focused on watching Ben and Bev disappear into Ben’s room together that he's forgotten he and Eddie aren’t actually sharing a room.

But Eddie can’t go back to his. He can’t sleep in the room where their clown-possessed childhood bully tried to kill him, that’s just not happening. It’s not safe, Eddie will see that. It’s not because Richie can’t bear the thought of shutting a door on Eddie, still isn’t convinced Eddie won’t vanish if Richie doesn’t have eyes on him at all times. It’s got nothing to do with the fact that this is probably going to be the last night he ever gets to spend with Eddie, and Richie wants to cling to him until reality rises with the sun in the morning and forces him to let go.

It’s not about that. It’s about Bowers, about the blood and broken glass.

“Eddie, are you sure you want to—"

Eddie bustles past him and Richie steps backwards out of his way, leaning against the dresser for balance, but as he puts a hand down to steady himself his fingers brush against something cold. He looks down and pulls his hand away frantically.

His old glasses. He’d taken them off before his shower, meaning to throw them in the trash, before pulling his back-up pair out of his duffel and being herded out of the room by Eddie. They’re cracked along one lens, the blood splattered across them tacky and congealed, cold where it's smeared against Richie’s fingers.

Eddie’s blood.

He’s aware of Eddie moving around the room, can hear his voice, but it sounds as though it’s coming from far away or through a wall, muffled and distant. The real world drops away, Richie’s tunnel vision focused on the cracked lens, and maybe Bowers was the one to stick a knife in Eddie’s face but Richie got a warning about the clown and still did nothing and here's the evidence — blood and broken glass — and suddenly Richie is back there, underneath the town that tried to destroy them all, jagged rocks digging into his back and Eddie’s blood splashed across his face, drenching his hands, soaking through a leather jacket that’ll be the last thing Richie ever gives him.

Buried under that house, in the sewers, in the dark and the cold. Where Richie lost him. Where Richie _left_ him.

Richie’s breathing comes fast and shallow, wheezing out of his throat and sounding exactly like—

_Breathe, just breathe Eds._

_Don’t call me Eds. Richie, you know I...I..._

And then all he can see is Eddie, bursting into his line of sight to grab the broken glasses from the dresser and drop them into the garbage can. He turns to face Richie, his steady hands warm and solid on Richie’s bicep, grounding and real.

“Rich,” he says softly, “you okay?”

“No,” says Richie hoarsely, and then Eddie drags him forwards into his arms, and Richie collapses against him, pulling them both down onto the threadbare carpet. Eddie mutters irritably against his shoulder but he doesn’t move or let go and Richie clings to him, sobbing quietly against Eddie’s neck. Eddie rocks him gently, one hand rubbing his back, just as he had done in the quarry when he'd first come back. When Richie still felt like he might turn into the clown or disappear into smoke leaving Richie’s arms empty again.

But he’s here, solid and warm and alive, in Richie’s arms and God...what a fucking miracle.

After a moment Eddie pulls away slightly and goes to stand, but Richie clings him, drags him back down.

“Will you—" Richie swallows. “Just stay in here tonight okay? Your room is full of glass and you were stabbed in there and if I can’t see you I’m just gonna keep thinking you’re gonna disappear again and I—" He’s cut off when Eddie hugs him again, nodding against his shoulder.

“I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” he says quietly, “but I’ll stay in here tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“I really don’t. I’ll sleep on the floor. You came back from the dead today, I think that gives you bed privileges.”

Eddie snorts and nudges him again.

“I’m not gonna make you sleep on the floor doofus. We’ve shared a bed before.”

Richie blinks at him.

“Yeah, when we were _kids_ ,” he says, and Eddie shrugs.

“What’s the difference?” he says easily, and Richie’s stuck; to Eddie, there probably isn’t a difference. Eddie sighs. “Come on Richie, it has been the longest day of my fucking life and I needed to lie down about three hours ago. You’ve already landed on your stupid head once today, I don’t want to have to knock you unconscious and drag you into the bed.”

“Kinky,” says Richie, laughing when Eddie tries to shove his face away. “Very Neanderthal.”

“Go brush your teeth,” says Eddie, heaving himself off the bed and diving back into one of his suitcases.

Richie does as he’s told, and when he comes out of the bathroom again Eddie goes in, leaving Richie to change into his sweatpants and an old t-shirt and wait nervously in the bed. Despite Eddie’s insistence on being exhausted, he takes a fucking age in the bathroom, eventually emerging wearing soft grey lounge pants and a white t-shirt so thin that Richie can see the shadow of his tattoo through the fabric, and is immensely grateful when Eddie turns the lights out, leaving the room illuminated only by the moonlight shining through the open window. Eddie smells like toothpaste and clean laundry and, as he slides under the covers and lies down next to Richie, something fresh and sweet that Richie realises is his face cream, and he has to fight down the urge to see how soft Eddie’s skin would feel under his fingers. The deja-vu is almost overwhelming; knowing that he’d lay like this before, almost nose-to-nose with Eddie Kaspbrak in a twin-sized bed that they didn’t really fit in because they were teenagers and should’ve grown out of sharing a bed with their friends by now but they still did it, and knowing that he’d felt it then, just as strongly. The urge to touch him—

_Don’t touch the other boys Richie._

Richie shuffles back a little, away from Eddie, and holds his breath. He knows Eddie’s tired — his own eyes are heavy and gritty with exhaustion — but Eddie’s getting on a plane to New York tomorrow and if this is the last time he sees Eddie for a while, he wants to make it count.

“You uh...you looking forward to going home?” he says eventually. Eddie makes a non-committal noise.

“I’m looking forward to getting out of Derry,” he says. He’s shifting restlessly in the bed. Richie says nothing. “Do you think,” Eddie says, after a moment’s silence, “do you think we’ll forget again? When we leave?”

“No!” It bursts out of Richie before he can stop it, grasping and desperate. “No, of course we won’t.” _Please God, say we won’t. I couldn’t bear it. The best thing I’ve ever been is part of this team._

“You...you sound pretty sure.”

“Well...I mean, I don’t _know_ that we won’t, not for sure. I didn’t major in Advanced Clown Bullshit.”

“No,” says Eddie, and in the moody half-light Richie can make out his big brown eyes gleaming. “No, that’s just your job.”

“Oh, good one!” He laughs and bolstered by the darkness and the safety of Eddie’s returned laughter, closes the distance between them again to poke Eddie in the ribs. Eddie bats his hand away, but then his smile twists into something else.

“Don’t you want to forget?” he asks quietly. “Don’t you think it would be better not to remember all this?”

“No,” says Richie instantly. “Even though most of what I remember is terrifying bullshit. Even after this weekend, even after seeing you—” he cuts himself off, but Eddie must understand, because his hand finds Richie’s under the cover and he tangles their fingers together. Richie can feel his pulse in his ears, wonders how Eddie doesn’t hear his heartbeat echoing in the silent room. “I didn’t know why I was lonely, or why I was so miserable. I...I don’t know how I ever lived like that.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, “yeah me too. When Mike first called me and I started remembering, Derry felt like a dream. But now that I’m back here, with all of you guys, it’s like the last twenty-whatever years have been the dream. I don’t think...I don’t think I’m really the person I’ve been for that time. I don’t even know if it’s really my life.” Eddie frowns, frustrated and upset but god, Richie knows exactly what he means, and he squeezes Eddie’s hand comfortingly. Eddie smiles up at him slightly.

“I guess that’s the upside of remembering, right? We get to figure it out properly now, with all our memories, and with each other to help. We get to stay together now.”

How is Richie supposed to survive when he’s got Eddie Kaspbrak in his bed, running his thumb over Richie’s knuckles, looking up at him with the moonlight reflected in his big brown eyes and saying shit like that?

“For better or worse Eds,” he says, because he’s an idiot. “I don’t know how I’ve even survived this long without someone to lecture me about smoking or seat-belts or eating food off the floor.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, soft and fond, “maybe that’s the real miracle here.” He’s silent for a moment, and then he frowns. “You don’t really eat food off the floor do you?”

“What? You don’t believe in the five-second-rule?” Richie grins.

“No I don’t believe in—” Eddie cuts himself off and closes his eyes, taking a deep calming breath, then sighs again, pensively. “It’s weird isn’t it? That’s what it came down to, in the end — what we believed in. Like, it was only as scary as we believed it was. When me and Stan were...with the turtle, it told us that the only reason it could send us back is that you guys wanted it so badly, and you believed it was possible.”

“It’s that classic fairy-tale, _the turtle god and the clown monster_ ,” says Richie, earning a snort of laughter from Eddie. “I guess Pennywise watched a lot of Disney movies, that’s probably why his hypno-lights work on Sleeping Beauty logic right? That’s why Ben kissing Bev woke her up.” Eddie makes a small, awkward noise, and Richie squints at his blurry face in the uneven light. “What?”

“That’s how I woke you up too.”

All the breath leaves Richie’s body at once.

“What?” _What?_ “You kissed me?”

“Well, I sort of panicked,” says Eddie. “I thought the fall would bring you out of it, but it didn’t. When I got over to you, your eyes were still all blank and scary. So I shouted at you a bit, but it didn’t work, and then I remembered Ben kissing Bev...” His voice trails off, and Richie tries to calm the rising tornado in his gut.

Richie had wondered. When he'd been slammed back to consciousness he was instantly aware not of the pain in his legs and back, or the furious screaming of the clown or the fearful shouts of his other friends; all of it seemed hazy and far away compared to Eddie’s concerned brown eyes and the fact that even though Richie was colder than he could ever remember being in his life, there was a tingling warmth around his mouth. A foggy memory of Bev and Ben had clarified in his mind and he had looked up at Eddie’s handsome, beaming face and thought, _did he...did he just...?_

And then he had Eddie’s blood splashed across his face and his arms suddenly empty and that split second chance he'd had to act had been ripped away.

One more thing to add to his list of reasons to hate the clown – the only time Eddie Kaspbrak will ever kiss him in his life and he _missed_ it.

“It’s like you said,” Eddie goes on, “it’s about belief. Ben was a kid with a crush on a girl he wrote poetry for, of course he believed true love’s kiss would break the spell.”

“And you?” Richie says, his voice hoarse with how much he wants the answer, how much he can’t bear to hear it. Eddie frowns thoughtfully.

“I guess...I guess I believed it would work because I’d already seen it work?” Eddie’s expression is troubled, as though he’s not convinced by his own answer, but then he shakes his head sharply and shrugs. “I don’t know, I thought you were dead, I was pretty desperate.”

“Well,” says Richie, fighting his voice into some semblance of normality. “I guess you saved my ass twice in the same ten minutes, so thanks.”

“Anytime.”

They talk a while longer — about the other Losers, about the lives they’re going back to and exchanging resurfacing memories — until Eddie falls asleep mid-sentence, their hands still tangled together, his forehead resting against Richie’s bicep.

Richie tries not to think about tomorrow, about them all splitting up and going back to their lives, about having to watch Eddie leave and knowing they’re going to be on different coasts, miles apart. He’s spent the whole weekend desperate to get out of this shitty town, but now he wants to drag out their time in Derry. He thinks everyone was joking when they talked about visiting the clubhouse one last time, but Richie almost wants to. Wants to take a souvenir — a token, he supposes — to keep safe in his pocket in case his memories start to fade, wants to see if he and Eddie can still fit in that hammock.

He kind of wants to see the kissing bridge again, but he can’t exactly tell them why, and can’t think of a plausible excuse for dragging Ben back to the site where he was almost gutted by Bowers. But Richie wants to see it – the carving he was brave and stupid enough to put there at thirteen — wants to see if it survived, if that little piece of evidence of his love for Eddie Kaspbrak will stay in Derry long after they’ve all left it behind for the last time.

He looks down at Eddie snuffling against his shoulder and thinks maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe the token in his pocket will be the phone that now carries the numbers of all his best friends. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the carving survived, when all seven of them did. He closes his eyes, and eventually falls asleep with his face pressed against Eddie’s hair.

***

They don’t go back to the clubhouse, and Richie can’t think of an excuse to go to the kissing bridge that wouldn’t seem suspicious, so they pile into three cars and speed away from the townhouse. Somehow Richie ends up alone in his car with Stan, and he can feel his gaze burning into the side of his face the entire way through Derry. As they get close to the edge of town, Richie sees the turn-off for the bridge and has to fight the urge to take it, forcing himself to picture the look on Stan’s face if he had to explain what he was doing. They’re almost free and clear of Derry when Mike and Bill — in Bill’s car just in front of them — pull over to the side of the road. Stan and Richie exchange a glance, but Richie pulls up behind them, and when he and Stan get out of the car he sees that it’s actually Eddie who has pulled over first, and Bev leaps out of his car with a wide grin on her face. Richie follows her gaze to a faded green sign that reads, _You are now leaving Derry! Come back soon!_

“Not fucking likely,” Stan mutters quietly, and Richie grins and wraps an arm around Stan’s shoulders. Bev is already shoving everyone together, positioning them carefully so that the sign can still be seen behind them all, standing back to examine the line-up critically and grinning at Richie.

“You can take the picture, noodle-arms,” she says, slotting herself in between Eddie and Bill and wrapping an arm around each of them. Richie digs his phone out of his jeans and puts the camera into selfie mode, holding it out in front of them as far as he can reach, trying to fit them all in.

“Say Derry sucks!” he sing-songs, and takes the photograph just as everyone cracks up laughing.

They fuck about for a while taking pictures with Richie’s phone — Bev and Ben kissing, Bill hiked up on Mike’s broad shoulders, Eddie and Bill perched on top of the sign. They’re all giggly and stupid, teasing each other and posing under the tentative early morning sunshine, and it’s the happiest Richie’s been in _years_. After half an hour they remember that they do all have flights to catch and start to head back to their respective cars, but Richie grabs Eddie before he can leave.

“Come on Eds,” he says, “take a selfie with me.”

Eddie sighs, long-suffering, but when Richie points the phone at them and shoves his tongue between his teeth, Eddie also pulls a ridiculous face — mouth a severe line, one eyebrow raised dramatically — and then laughs at the picture. They take a couple more before Eddie’s dragged away by Bev, and Richie gets back into his own car to wait for Stan to finish his conversation with Mike, scrolling through the photos with a smile. He lingers over the selfies with Eddie. The first one looks...weirdly familiar to him, and he wonders if somewhere buried in this crappy town is a picture of a young Richie and Eddie pulling the same stupid faces. The others are a little blurry, Eddie laughing and Richie covering his whole face with one hand, but the last one is in perfect focus. The breeze parted the canopy of leaves overhead just in time for the watery sunlight to shine on them, gleaming in Eddie’s dark hair and revealing the spray of freckles over his nose, scrunched up with laughter. Richie’s got his chin hooked over Eddie’s shoulder and his cheek pressed against Eddie’s and the softest smile on his stupid face and they look so happy, they look so good together, they look like—

Stan slams the door shut as he slides back into the car and Richie jumps guiltily, angling the phone away, but he can tell from the little sigh that escapes from Stan that it’s too late.

“Wow,” Stan deadpans, and Richie shoves the phone in his pocket, like it’ll make any difference now.

“What?” he tries regardless.

“What do you mean _what_? It’s been nearly thirty years and it’s like no time has passed at all. You still look at him like—”

“Don’t.”

“Hey,” says Stan softly, “hey, it’s okay Richie. I didn’t mean—”

“Look, he literally died in my fucking arms Stanley,” says Richie quietly. “I’m not ready to be psychoanalysed about it.”

Stan puts a tentative hand on Richie’s forearm and squeezes. Richie takes a deep breath and looks up at him.

“Don’t tell him,” he says, and Stan crosses his heart with the hand not gripping Richie’s arm.

Richie doesn’t even know what there is to tell, but he knows he can’t face Eddie knowing every shadowy thought that Richie has about him, and he feels sick at himself. He’s glad now that they didn’t go to the kissing bridge, there’s no result that would have made him happy. If the carving is gone — faded to time or replaced by new wood, new initials carved by new lovesick kids — he’d be bitter that he didn’t get to leave this mark on Derry but if it had remained there? Could he face this shadow of his thirteen-year-old self, terrified but so fucking brave, leaving evidence behind of his love for Eddie when he still can’t bring himself to say the words out loud, twenty-seven years later?

“Ready to go?” Stan’s voice drags him back to the present, and he nods firmly.

“You bet your ass Stanley,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. “Let’s get the fuck out of clown town.”

They have to say goodbye to Bill as soon as they get to the airport and it’s _weird_. They’ve only been back together for two days and it already feels like they’re breaking something as they hug Bill and make him swear to update their group chat regularly to let them know he isn’t forgetting them. Richie doesn’t know whether it’s worse because it’s Bill, or whether it wouldn’t matter who left first, but they’re subdued once he’s gone, whatever power the seven of them have feels diminished somehow. But technically speaking they’ve been out of Derry for a couple of hours and Richie still remembers everything — in nightmarish detail — so it looks positive on the amnesia front at least.

Bev and Ben are the next to leave, flying out to Chicago so that Bev can, in her words, “deal with some things”, before they fly out to Ben’s place in New York, and soon after Stan and Mike’s flight to Georgia is called.

Eddie exchanges a very intense-looking goodbye with Mike, Eddie talking fast and frantic until Mike laughs and scoops Eddie into a hug that lifts him off the ground in a way that would make Eddie feral if Richie did it to him. Instead he just wraps his arms around Mike, whispering fiercely into his ear. Richie watches them wistfully. Eddie and Mike had always been close when they were kids, Mike seeming to be a calming influence on Eddie in a way no one else ever really was, least of all Richie. At his side, Stan clears his throat pointedly.

“Stanley,” he says, and Stan raises his eyebrows.

“Are you going to stop pining for five seconds so you can actually say goodbye to me?”

“You know, I’ve lived quite happily for twenty three years without anyone being able to read my fucking mind, I’m not sure how comfortable I am with this,” he says, but sweeps Stan into a crushing hug nonetheless. “I’m really glad you’re here Stanley,” he says quietly, into Stan’s shoulder. Stan gives him a squeeze.

“Me too,” he says, and pulls away a little. “If you need someone to talk to,” he gives Richie A Look, “about anything—”

“—then I have a therapist.”

“There’s no way you’re emotionally aware enough to have a therapist,” says Stan, and Richie shoves him lightly.

“Ouch,” he says. “I could have a therapist, you don’t know. Look, I have a very good relationship with my pizza delivery guy, it’s basically the same thing.”

“It is not, but I have your number now, so we’ll have a chance to unpack all that.”

“Oh God,” Richie groans. “Go, go away, go back to your hot wife who’s definitely going to have you committed when you tell her about your weekend.”

Stan smiles, the thought of his wife apparently enough to turn his characteristic reluctant half-smile into a full-on beam, and squeezes Richie’s hand one last time.

“Love you Trashmouth.”

“Love you too Stanley.”

He hugs Mike (“don’t ever come back to Derry Mikey” “I wasn’t planning on it”) and waits as Eddie says goodbye to Stan, and then it’s just the two of them. They sit in silence until Eddie’s flight back to New York is called, and as Eddie gets to his feet, something like panic grips Richie and he grabs hold of Eddie’s hand.

“You gonna be ok Rich?” says Eddie quietly.

“You’ll...” Richie swallows painfully, “you’ll call, right? Once in a while? Just to...let me know you’re ok?”

_Let me know you’re still here, still around, that you haven’t been taken away from me again, that you haven’t forgotten all about me._

Eddie pulls a face.

“Once in a while, are you shitting me? I just got all my best friends back after nearly thirty years — you’re gonna get so fucking sick of me.”

Richie laughs, a little shakily, and accepts a hug from Eddie, allows himself to relish the feeling of Eddie’s strong arms around him, but resists the urge to bury his face in Eddie’s hair. As he pulls away, he hurriedly blinks back tears, but Eddie looks a little watery-eyed as well, and he gives Richie a wobbly smile.

“I’ll speak to you really soon, okay Rich?” He hovers awkwardly for a second, opening and closing his mouth like there’s something else he wants to say, before grabbing his carry-on bag and turning away abruptly.

Richie watches him all the way to the gate. Eddie turns at the last minute to give him a little wave and Richie’s hit with the memory — sharp and vivid — of watching Eddie waving out of the back of his mother’s car as they sped away from Derry, trying desperately to breathe around the daggers in his chest. He’s suddenly certain, as he had been then, that he’s just said goodbye to Eddie for the last time. Eddie’s going to go back to New York — to his wife, his apartment, his job — and forget all about Richie, and not because of bullshit clown magic this time, but just because Eddie has spent the last twenty-four years building himself a life that Richie isn’t part of.

It hits Richie with a sudden ache that he’s the only one of the Losers to be going home alone. Ben and Bev left together, Mike’s gone home with Stan and although Eddie and Bill have boarded flights alone, they’re both going back to their wives, and Eddie will have Ben and Bev in New York with him soon. Richie’s happy for his friends — he’s glad Ben and Bev get their happy ending and that there will be people around to keep an eye on Eddie and Stan -– but when he thinks about his empty apartment back in LA, he remembers what he’d said to Eddie last night, sleepy and safe in the bed.

_I don’t know how I ever lived like that._

And all of this might hurt a little less he thinks, if it wasn’t for the way Eddie had squared his shoulders as he turned away, mouth turned down at the corners like he was readying himself for battle. If he could be sure that Eddie was heading back to a life that was making him happy.

At least that way one of them would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so, this is the end of the "fix-it" part of the story - next time everyone is finally out of Derry!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	3. The Only Thing and Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah,” Richie agrees softly. “That’s true Eds.”
> 
> “You know,” says Eddie seriously, “it just...it isn’t my name.”
> 
> Richie laughs.
> 
> “I’m remembering them all now,” he says. “Eds. Eduardo. Doctor K. Eddie Spaghetti.”
> 
> “Oh God, not Eddie Spaghetti,” he groans. “That’s worse than Eds.”
> 
> “Eddie Spaghetti,” says Richie gleefully. “Eds Spagheds. Eduardo Spagheduardo.”
> 
> “Beep beep, dickhead,” Eddie laughs.
> 
> “You know, I went more than twenty years without anybody beeping at me.”
> 
> “Yeah? I went more than twenty years without anyone calling me Eddie fucking Spaghetti.”
> 
> “Well I’m sorry your life was so empty,” says Richie, and he grins and hugs himself happily when a sharp, surprised laugh bursts out of the phone.
> 
> “God,” says Eddie, “how did I ever forget you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken a while to update, the library I work in reopened recently and it's been chaos getting it ready. 
> 
> Full disclosure - this is my own least favorite chapter of the fic. It's kind of a transition chapter between the fix-it and the actual story, so it's all stuff that needs to be here but it's not exactly plot-driven. It's pretty dialogue heavy so I hope it's not too slow to read.

_Please fall asleep so I can take pictures of you_

_And hang them in my room_

_So when I wake up I feel like, “yeah, everything’s alright”_

_You are still here, you are still happy_

_You are still smiling and laughing_

_You are still the only thing and everything I need in my life_

_Flashlight - The Front Bottoms_

Richie makes it all the way back to his apartment in LA before he breaks down.

It’s easy to stay calm on the plane. Richie likes flying — likes the distance from reality, this weird liminal space that he shares with a hundred other people who don’t expect anything from him and usually don’t even recognize him. He doesn’t have to perform, doesn’t have to worry about how he’s coming across or what people think, what people are seeing when their eyes linger on him a little too long. He can just...exist.

It’s peaceful, like meditation but with complimentary peanuts.

He tries to unpick his emotions logically, talking to a Voice in his head that sounds like Stan, calm and sensible and serious. Richie is bound to be feeling shaken up after the weekend he just had, it’d be bizarre if he was walking away from all that completely unscathed right? And really, thinking about it, he’s coming away with way more positives than negatives. Sure, he can already tell he’s going to be having some new and vivid nightmares after all this and he’s eventually going to have to start answering when Steve calls, come up with some kind of explanation as to why he bombed a set, threw up, forgot his name and then disappeared off the face of the earth for three days.

But.

Number one positive thing — It is dead, for good this time. Call it revenge for everything it took from them, all the damage done before they were even born, future generations of Derry kids that can grow up safe from being eaten by a sewer monster — however you look at it, it’s a positive.

Second positive thing — he remembers _everything_. He remembers his childhood, remembers that alongside all the bits of it that sucked were good things too. He remembers his parents — which is a stupid thing to say, because they’re both still alive and kicking and enjoying their retirement in Florida, and he talks to them pretty often. But he’d left Derry for college and they’d left a couple of years later and he’d forgotten so much about being a kid that he’d forgotten what good parents they were. They still are, really, but he hadn’t remembered being young enough to need them and hadn’t remembered that they’d been there for him. But now he remembers Maggie fussing over his poor conduct remarks but gushing over his grades, Went laughing at every stupid Voice Richie tried to perfect, both of them indulgently allowing Richie’s friends to muscle into their lives.

And his friends — the best friends he’s ever had in his entire life — not only does he remember them now, he gets them back, gets to _keep_ them. Yeah fine he’s flying back to LA and they’re not, but having his friends stuck in another state is infinitely better than having them scooped out of his mind entirely like pumpkin seeds. He has money, he likes flying — New York is not that far away, really. In the meantime, the Losers group chat on his phone is pinging with nonsense as they all clamor to reassure each other that no one’s forgotten anything. They won’t lose each other again, all seven of them back together, which is extra impressive considering—

But no. Richie’s focusing on the positives of the weekend. Stan didn’t die. Eddie didn’t die. Well, they did, but they came back, which is really the important part, even if Richie has nightmares every night for the rest of his life about Eddie’s blood splattering against his glasses, the blank, lifeless stare in his glassy brown eyes, the way Ben and Mike had to—

No. Positive things. Eddie is alive, and if meeting his gaze had made Richie’s stomach a little fluttery well...on some level no one ever gets over their first crush, right? That’s all it is, the ghost of a little crush he had on his best friend as a kid. Nothing weird, nothing harmful, nothing that’s going to completely derail Richie’s carefully curated life. He barely knows grown-up Eddie, really. Maybe he’s a jerk. Maybe he’s a flat-earther, or a climate change denier, or he had a MAGA hat hidden away in one of those humongous suitcases with his vast collection of polo shirts. Probably not, Richie concedes, but that doesn’t mean Eddie is the same person he was twenty-four years ago, which doesn’t mean that Richie’s still—

Anyway. Just because Eddie had looked at him with that secret smile, just because they’d curled up in Richie’s bed to talk for hours — soft and safe like kids at a slumber party — just because the thought of Eddie’s big brown eyes kind of make Richie want to turn this fucking plane around—

It’s nothing. It’s been a long weekend, he just needs to sleep, get back to normal. That’s what Eddie’s probably doing, back in New York in his apartment, thinking about getting back to his boring job, already reunited with his wife...

That’s good, that’s what was supposed to happen. They all get their lives back, and they can keep each other updated in the group chat and maybe meet up occasionally, if it’s possible for seven busy adults spread across three states to organize being available on the same weekend. That’s fine.

That’s enough. It has to be enough.

He walks into his apartment in LA that night and rethinks everything.

He sets his bag down on the carpet by the door and suddenly the whole place feels alien to him, unfamiliar and unwelcoming. He hasn’t lived here long enough for it to really feel like home, only a year and a half, and it’s decorated in the muted, tasteful way it was when he moved in. Lots of white and chrome and teak. It smells of Lysol and furniture polish — his cleaner must have come over the weekend, and there’s a good chance Steve has been here too. It’s empty now though, and the whole building is so quiet he could be the only one in it. He isn’t, there are two other apartments in the complex and Richie knows his neighbours well enough to nod at them in the lobby, but with a whole floor to himself it’s easy to believe he’s completely alone.

He is, after all, in any way that matters. Bill lives in LA but he won’t be back from his shoot in England for weeks, which means that all Richie’s real friends, all the people who actually give a shit about him, are thousands of miles away.

His head spins suddenly and he lowers himself shakily onto his couch. There’s familiar pressure in his throat and his jaw and he swallows around the urge to vomit. How the fuck is he supposed to do this? To just go back to normal like he didn’t nearly die this weekend? Like he didn’t simultaneously remember all the best parts of his life — of _himself_ — and then come within an inch of losing it all over again.

He could call them, he supposes. They’re all going through the same thing, after all, and like Eddie said perhaps the upside of keeping their nightmares and their bad memories is getting to keep each other.

 _Eddie_ …

He could call Eddie. He _wants_ to call Eddie — wants to hear his loud, frantic voice and his sharp laugh and the softness in his voice when he snaps back at Richie’s teasing. But Eddie has a life (Eddie has a _wife_ and it shouldn’t sting but fuck, it _stings_ ) and Richie only just left him at the airport and Eddie had promised that they would speak soon but he’s not sure how seriously to take that promise.

He takes his phone out of his jacket and lays it face down on the table. Then he takes several deep breaths, goes to the kitchen and drinks a glass of water—

 _slowly dummy, don’t gulp it, jeez do you wanna throw up again?_

—and is feeling marginally less shaky when he sits down again and picks up the phone. There are dozens of calls from Steve and there’s an uncomfortable twist of guilt in his stomach, but he swipes the notifications away nonetheless. One problem at a time. There are several messages in the group chat — Ben and Bev are safe in Chicago, Bill sends a selfie from London and Stan sends a simple thumbs-up emoji in response to questions about his wife. There’s a couple from Eddie — he landed safe in New York and he’s the first to press Stan for details — but when Richie steels himself and decides he’s going to message Eddie privately, he sees Eddie has beaten him to it.

His chest tightens with nerves, immediately assuming the worst, but he forces himself to open the thread.

 **Eds:** I leave New York for one weekend and look what’s appeared outside my apartment.

There’s a picture in the next message, presumably taken from one of Eddie’s apartment windows, of an ugly billboard advertising a kid’s party place, featuring a huge, garish clown.

 **Eds:** Thanks for the nightmares Party Avenue Brooklyn.

 **Eds:** Hope you got back to LA ok.

Richie stares at the messages for a minute, and then starts to laugh. It’s a little hysterical, and after a few seconds his hiccuping giggles turn into something closer to sobs, but the panic encasing his lungs eases just a little, and he breathes. 

***

“Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

“ _Edward_? Who the fuck is Edward?”

“Richie!” Eddie sounds gratifyingly furious screeching in Richie’s ear; he’s only been on the phone for three seconds and there are already giddy bubbles filling Richie’s stomach. He puts Eddie on speaker and places the phone onto the coffee table, allowing Eddie’s voice to fill the silent apartment. “How the fuck did you get my office number?”

“I have my wily ways,” Richie says, “and many mysterious contacts.”

“You mean _Bev_ gave it to you.”

“I never reveal my sources Eds.”

“Not my name asshole,” Eddie sing-songs, and then he sighs heavily. “What do you want Rich? I have so much work to do dude, you have no idea.”

“Man, you literally died like three weeks ago, I think that entitles you to some time off.”

“You think that matters to these people?” Eddie says, and Richie can hear typing on Eddie’s end of the line. He wonders if Eddie’s put him on speaker too, if his voice is floating out into Eddie’s real life, filling up his fancy New York office. “If I’d stayed dead they’d have set up a Ouija board to ask me to get someone to cover my files.”

“I think your office might be a cult,” he says, smiling when Eddie gives a snuffly little laugh. “Hey, do you remember—”

“When we set up a Ouija board in Ben’s basement and you scared the actual shit out of me pretending to be the dead girl from that horror film we just watched? Yes Richie, vividly.”

It’s the exact memory Richie was going to try and drag to the surface of Eddie’s memory and Richie laughs in delight. It’s been fun these past few weeks to be able to text any of the Losers and say _hey remember when_ and almost always get a positive message or a phone call in response. Often, it’s Stan or Bill — who Richie has known the longest — and sometimes it’s Bev, who Richie adored as a girl and loves even more as a ferocious, cackling devil of a woman.

Most of the time it’s Eddie.

“Did you want something Rich?” says Eddie. “Or did you just call to bring up old memories to torment me with?”

“I…” Richie hesitates, impulsively grabbing one of his sofa cushions and cradling it to his chest. “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to you. I’m checking up on you I guess,” he admits reluctantly, and gets a sharp sigh in response.

“Do you have a separate group chat that me and Stan aren’t in?” he asks. “One for Losers who’ve never died.”

“No,” says Richie. “Why would you think that?”

“Cause I had Bill “just checking up on me” yesterday evening, and Stan text me to say Mike “checked on him” this morning even though he only left Georgia two days ago. Do you have like, a rota?”

“No,” says Richie again, shifting uncomfortably. He talks to Stan a lot, probably the most out of the non-Eddie Losers, but he doesn’t find himself gripped at random points of the day or night with the crippling fear that Stan had never come back, had stayed dead and that Richie had imagined the whole thing. Sometimes, out of nowhere, his mind goes blank for a few seconds and all he can see is Eddie’s cold, empty eyes staring at nothing and the only way to calm himself after the image fades is to hear Eddie’s voice. He doesn’t know whether it’s because he didn’t actually _see_ Stan die, or whether it’s because he loves Stan, but not the same way he—

“Wait,” Richie says, hoping to distract Eddie — or himself — from his current line of thought, “do you and Stan have a group chat for just the two of you?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, drawing it out into a taunt, like he’s teasing Richie with a Popsicle when Richie can’t have one. “It’s called _Living Dead Losers_ and we talk about all the secrets of the universe the turtle shared with us.”

“Oh, I bet,” says Richie sullenly. “I bet he was just full of reptilian wisdom.” He has mixed feelings about their benevolent turtle friend. Sure he seems to have done them a solid on the Eddie-and-Stan-resurrection front, but a multi-dimensional space entity with cosmic powers leaving the monster killing to seven traumatised nobodies means Richie’s not exactly a fully paid-up member of the fan club.

“Gave you your best friend back, didn’t he?” says Eddie lightly, and Richie wonders for a second whether Eddie is talking about himself or Stan. “We should set up a little shrine to him.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, “make monthly sacrifices of…I dunno…what do turtles eat? Pizza?”

Eddie laughs then, a full-bodied chuckle that makes Richie’s insides glow with warmth and pride.

“Only in cartoons man,” he says. “What about you Richie? How are you doing?”

Richie squirms. It’s not a question that’s easy to answer right now. Unfortunately it’s one Eddie asks a lot.

“I’m good,” Richie says cagily, and the typing stops abruptly.

“You sure? Is Steve talking to you again?”

“Begrudgingly,” he says. “I mean, I don’t blame him, I guess. The original shit-show would have been enough but then I came back, cancelled the rest of my tour and fired the ghost-writers. If my career tanks his is going to suffer too.”

“Your career isn’t going to tank,” says Eddie kindly. “You are a million times funnier than the shit you’ve been parroting for the last fifteen years. What is it they say about comedy? Something about trauma plus time? The amount of traumatic memories you just got back must be worth at least a half hour of jokes?”

“Yeah? You think I should write about the shape-shifting space clown that haunted our childhood? You’re going to get me dragged off to rehab again.”

“Hey, you said Patty would have Stan committed if he told her the truth and it worked out for him.”

“Sure, but I won’t have the reassuring presence of Mike Hanlon on stage to back me up. If I start talking about sewer clowns people are just going to wonder what I’m on.”

“Yeah, I guess you do have that vibe,” says Eddie, laughing when Richie makes an offended noise. “Maybe don’t talk about the clown then, but that’s not all our childhood was. Some fun stuff happened as well.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees softly. “That’s true Eds.”

“You know,” says Eddie seriously, “it just...it isn’t my name.”

Richie laughs.

“I’m remembering them all now,” he says. “Eds. Eduardo. Doctor K. Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Oh God, not Eddie Spaghetti,” he groans. “That’s worse than Eds.”

“Eddie Spaghetti,” says Richie gleefully. “Eds Spagheds. Eduardo Spagheduardo.”

“Beep beep, dickhead,” Eddie laughs.

“You know, I went more than twenty years without anybody _beeping_ at me.”

“Yeah? I went more than twenty years without anyone calling me Eddie fucking Spaghetti.”

“Well I’m sorry your life was so empty,” says Richie, and he grins and hugs himself happily when a sharp, surprised laugh bursts out of the phone.

“God,” says Eddie, “how did I ever forget you?”

His voice is soft all of a sudden. This is a new thing Richie has had to contend with while getting to know adult Eddie — the way all of his spiky outer layers sometimes suddenly drop with no warning, leaving him sincere and affectionate. There’s no way Richie can handle sincere Eddie right now.

“That’s the power of clown magic,” he says breezily. “But you’re stuck with me now.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, “ _checking up on me_.”

“I’m not—”

“I’m kidding,” says Eddie. “But I’m fine Rich, I swear. I’m a little tired and a little overworked but I’m...I’m still here.”

Eddie says that a lot — _I’m still here_. Richie wonders if he says it because he too sometimes wonders if his second shot at life is permanent, or if he says it because still being here is the best thing he can say about his life.

Richie wonders which is worse.

***

The small amount of Richie’s mental space that isn’t completely consumed with thoughts of Eddie suddenly has another obsession — coming out.

He thinks about it all the time since Derry. He used to think about it before Derry as well, but differently. Before he worried about it, saw it as a thing that could be done to him, something that would ruin his career and his life.

Now he thinks about it as something he could do, a narrative he could take control of, even though that sounds so cheesy. Other than guys he’s slept with over the years, only one person actually knows that Richie is gay and that’s Steve, who has always maintained that if Richie ever wanted to come out, he would be supportive. Richie has no idea how he would do it. At a show? Online? Via some kind of anxiety-inducing press conference? The possibilities are endless and horrifying.

But of course he can’t just throw something out online or in a press conference because there are people in his life who shouldn’t find out that way, people he should tell himself, people who — he’s almost entirely sure — will also be supportive. Pre-Derry, even the idea of coming out had made Richie want to vomit. It was never a plan, never an option, he thought he’d die closeted. But now he remembers having people in his life who loved him despite every stupid joke he ever made, all the time he spent running his mouth, every good reason they had not to. He can’t imagine them loving him any less because of this.

He almost wishes he’d told them all in person while they were still in Derry, just gotten it over with and dealt with the consequences straight away. Coming back to the life that had safely hidden his secrets for such a long time seems to have reminded him of all the reasons it’s still so terrifying to let people know who he really is. He’s braver when he’s with them.

But.

He thinks they probably know. Perhaps they don’t _know_ , not enough to assign him a label or fill out an online dating profile for him, but they know enough so that if he tells them the actual truth it won’t be that surprising. They dragged him, kicking and screaming and sobbing, away from the body of his best friend after all.

Stanley wasn’t there for that but judging by their conversation in the car as they left Derry, Stan’s _always_ known. Which makes sense, because Stan was always observant and read people so well and knew Richie inside out, but Richie can’t help but wonder if one day one of the memories floating to the surface of his mind is going to be teenage Richie confessing everything to teenage Stan.

Which leaves Eddie, who also wasn’t there to witness Richie fall apart, because he was the cause of it, and was the one person Richie would have died rather than tell that particular truth to when they were kids. But now...part of him wants Eddie to be the first to know, feels that it’s somehow fitting, that he deserves that truth before the other Losers. Eddie is maybe the only one of the Losers Richie isn’t sure will take the news well, although he’s not sure why he thinks that. Memories of Eddie ranting about AIDS in the 80's maybe, or knowing the ghost of Sonia Kaspbrak still lives in Eddie’s head, just a little. But even if Richie’s concerns are unfounded, it definitely says _something_ to pick Eddie out of all the Losers to tell first, and he doesn’t want Eddie to start trying to work out what that something might be.

That evening, a few hours after he’s hung up on Eddie in his office, he stands in front of his bathroom mirror.

“I’m gay,” he tells his reflection. “I’m gay, and they won’t care, and they won’t hate me, and I’m gonna fucking tell them.”

He’s gonna fucking tell them.

It takes him nearly a week. A week of drafting the message in the group chat, shaking hands holding his thumb over the screen ready to post it, trying to picture their reaction. Will they laugh? Be horrified, disgusted, ashamed of him? Will they _pity_ him? Will they want anything to do with him after this, or will he get all of his best friends back in his life only to lose them all over again once they learn his dirty little secret?

After a week of frantically deleting the message every time in a nauseous panic, he’s staring at it again, typed out into the little box and ready to go. It’s Sunday afternoon, and he wonders what the other Losers are doing, what kind of day he would be interrupting with this confession. Is Bill still on set? Is Mike having fun in Florida with the internet friends he’s staying with? Are Stan and Patty enjoying their extended vacation in Buenos Aires? Is Bev working on her new solo designs? Is Ben busy with the community centre he’s designing in New York?

Is Eddie with his wife? Are they enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon at home, maybe cooking something together, or watching movies? Are they out shopping, or spending time with the other couples they’re probably friends with?

He’s almost ready to throw his phone off his balcony and into the pool he shares with his neighbours, when a message from Bev hits the group chat. 

**Ms Marsh** : Richie will you send the pics you took of us leaving Derry to the chat? I need the good vibes.

Richie breathes a shaky sigh and smiles, glad of the distraction, and fires off the handful of pictures. He hasn’t looked at them since he’s been back in LA but he does so now, lingering again on the selfies of him and Eddie, pressed cheek to cheek and so fucking happy just to be back together and he thinks, _fuck it_.

All the things he’s imagining, the Losers would never think any of it. That’s Derry talking. That’s _the clown_ talking, and fuck that crappy, B-movie monster for ever making him afraid of his friends.

He sets the picture of himself and Eddie pulling stupid faces as his lock screen and then sends the message, holding his phone in shaking hands as he waits for their responses. They don’t keep him waiting for long, and by the time Eddie adds his own message of love and support to all the others, Richie can barely read it through tears of relief.

Eddie face times him that evening.

“Guess I can’t get away with making jokes about your mom anymore huh?” Richie says, as soon as he picks up.

“I don’t know why you ever thought you could,” says Eddie, his face serious. He’s tucked into the corner of a big, navy blue sofa, bundled up in a faded grey sweatshirt with his hair all soft and wavy. It’s longer than it was in Derry, and Richie wonders how it would feel slipping through his fingers. There are little purple smudges of exhaustion under Eddie’s eyes but he when he smiles at Richie, he lights up a little. “I’m proud of you Rich, that must’ve been scary as fuck.”

“Don’t,” says Richie instantly. “Don’t get all sincere with me, I can’t take it. I’m very emotionally fragile right now, I need you to call me an asshole or something.”

“We love you, you know,” he says, and then grins a little. “Asshole.”

They talk a little about it and Eddie switches seamlessly between teasing and sincere, seeming to know instinctively which Richie needs at any given time. He’s never still, constantly shifting around or fiddling with his clothes, getting up once in the middle of the call and taking Richie into his kitchen, propping the phone up on the sideboard while he brews tea. Eddie’s apartment is silent and Richie doesn’t ask, but he wonders constantly if Eddie is alone there, and what it means if he is.

Eventually Eddie takes his tea back to the sofa and balances the phone on his knees so he can hold his mug with both hands. He raises his to his mouth; his eyes gleam a little over the rim of the mug and Richie’s stomach flips with nerves.

“Okay,” Eddie says, “I have to ask the most important question.” He lowers his mug until it’s resting against his chest, staring at Richie with a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Did you ever have a crush on one of the Losers?”

The question is so unexpected that Richie doesn’t get chance to school his expression into something neutral before Eddie’s face lights up.

“You did!” he exclaims, a teasing grin bringing out his dimples. “Will you tell me who?”

“I...” Richie stumbles. “ _No_. It was a long time ago anyway,” he tells Eddie, tells himself. _It was then, not now, not still, not forever._

Eddie scrunches his face up in disappointment.

“What if I guess? Will you tell me if I get it right?”

Richie hesitates. If Eddie guesses himself, Richie will have to admit it, but if Eddie thinks he was Richie’s crush, and his face is all lit up and teasing, not angry or disgusted, then...

“You get one guess. If you get it right first go, I’ll tell you.”

“Okay,” says Eddie, staring at him thoughtfully. Richie can feel his heart in his throat, half hoping Eddie guesses himself, half desperately hoping he doesn’t. “Was it Stan?”

Richie laughs, a weird mixture of relief and disappointment swirling in his stomach.

“What? What’s funny?” Eddie demands. “Does that mean no?”

“No, it was not Stan.”

“What the fuck?” Eddie looks outraged. “I was so fucking sure! Would you actually tell me if it was? I swear to god I wouldn’t tell him if you didn’t want me to.”

“I swear on the grave of my beloved Sonia—"

“Fuck you.”

“—it was not Stan. You look furious,” Richie says, grinning a little. “You wanna walk me through your thought process Eds? You clearly thought you were on the money.”

“I really did!” He’s all but shouting at the screen, face alive and animated. “Okay, well I had to eliminate Bev on account of the gay.”

“Harsh but fair.”

“Mmhmm. And I think we all kind of had a crush on Bill, didn’t we? Cause he was, you know, _Bill_.”

“Our fearless leader?”

“Exactly. But it didn’t seem like the kind of crush Bev had on Bill, more like the kind of crush me and Stan and Mike had on Bill. Like more hero worship than a _crush_ crush.”

“Okay,” says Richie, nodding seriously. “I will confirm or deny nothing, but I see the logic.”

“Ben and Mike were both too...” he scrunches his nose up thoughtfully, “easy.”

Richie snorts a surprised laugh.

“What kind of reputation are you trying to start for poor Ben and Mike?” he says.

“Not like _that_ ,” says Eddie. “I just mean...Mike was too calm, and Ben was too sweet. They both would’ve let you get away with anything, which — aside from being horrific for society as a whole — I don’t think is what you would’ve wanted anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Richie says softly, drawn in by the thoughtful crease between Eddie’s eyebrows.

“Just...you liked a challenge. You liked people who argued with you and pushed you and gave as good as they got. Ben and Mike never really did that.”

Richie’s heartbeat picks up as Eddie unknowingly lists off the reasons Richie was so in love with him when they were kids. All of this is true, Eddie knows him so well, and Richie’s dying to know what reason Eddie has for discounting himself.

Eddie shrugs and smiles.

“Which leaves Stan.”

“What?” Richie gapes at him. Does Eddie not even consider himself an option? Is the idea of Richie having feelings for him so ridiculous that he’s not even putting himself on the shortlist? Richie wraps his arm around his stomach, pressing against a sudden knot of hurt.

“I mean, I would've guessed Stan first anyway,” Eddie says. “It wasn’t like it was just a process of elimination. I always thought...I don’t know...like Stan was more in focus to you than everyone else. You _listened_ to Stan, even when you didn’t listen to anyone else, even Bill.”

“I...yeah, I did listen to Stan, but it was more like he was the exasperated but supportive big brother I didn’t actually have. I loved him to death — still do — but not like _that_.”

“Goddammit...” Eddie mutters, his whole face screwed up in annoyance. He looks so put out, and Richie wonders whether it’s Eddie’s usual annoyance at being wrong or whether this is something he really wanted to know. “I think...” Eddie hesitates. “Okay, this might sound a bit weird, but in another life I actually think Stan would've been really good for you.” He laughs, a little awkwardly. “Like...he calmed you down without trying to control you, or stop you being who you were. He didn’t let you get away with too much shit like Ben or Mike would've, but he didn’t rile you up and make you worse like—" he cuts himself off, and Richie can see a faint blush dust his cheeks.

“Like?” Richie prompts, curiously.

“Like me,” he says, almost sheepishly, although he’s still smiling.

“Aw Eds,” Richie sighs, “getting riled up by you was my favourite way to pass the time.”

Eddie’s expression flickers into something serious — his eyebrows raise suddenly — and Richie panics, but then it passes and Eddie smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah me too.”

***

Richie had been wrong about a lot of things on the way out of Derry. He’d been wrong to think he’d never speak to Eddie again, wrong to assume that Steve would have no sympathy when he finally talked to him, wrong to worry that the Losers might hate him if they knew the part of himself he’d been hiding.

He had not been wrong about the nightmares.

He wakes up most nights in the early hours of the morning, sweating and shaking and trying desperately to scrub the image of Eddie bleeding in his arms from his mind.

Sometimes the nightmares are over quickly, and he’ll wake up while the Losers are swimming in the quarry, and that’s...well, it’s not _fun_ to relive Eddie being impaled and dying under Neibolt, but that did happen, and Richie still got Eddie back. If that’s as far as the dream goes, he flicks back through the last few days of the group chat, picking out Eddie’s contributions, or rereads their latest text conversation, and it's normally enough to calm him down, allow him to go back to sleep, at least for a couple more hours.

Sometimes though, the dream lasts longer, and he gets the full director’s cut version of the movie that he had seen in the deadlights. Eddie still gets impaled, dies in Richie’s arms after saving Richie’s life and they still drag themselves to the quarry, but this time only five of them leave the water and Eddie’s body stays buried under the town that killed him. They drag themselves back to the Town House, and Richie lies down on his bed in his soaked, filthy clothes and ignores Bill and Bev telling him to get up, take a shower, eat something. He pulls the sheet over his head and thinks, _maybe I’ll never leave this bed again, what’s the point?_

But then he’s in someone’s car, being driven out of Derry, and as they pass the sign he has the sudden, terrible feeling that they’ve forgotten something, left someone behind. But if he can’t remember who, then it can’t be anyone important. He asks Bev, but she just shakes her head at him blankly. The Losers board separate planes, and leave Maine for the last time, and everyone who ever really knew and loved Eddie Kaspbrak let him die under a haunted house, left his body in a sewer and forgets all about him twelve hours later.

If the dream goes on that long, Richie usually has to throw up when he wakes. Reading text messages isn’t enough to comfort him, he has to hear Eddie’s voice, to _know_ he’s alive. Usually Richie face times and usually Eddie answers, and if he doesn’t, he never keeps Richie waiting more than five minutes before he calls back.

“How’re things Rich?” Eddie says sleepily, one night when it had taken Richie half an hour to stop sobbing and calm down enough to call Eddie. His face is pale, and he’s lost weight since Derry, which makes his tired brown eyes look extra big and earnest. His usually tidy hair is stuck up at ridiculous angles, and Richie can see that he’s still tucked up in bed — there’s a comforter pulled up to his chest, and the purple t-shirt he’s wearing is old and stretched and shows off one of his very prominent collarbones. Richie has a sudden and vivid vision of getting it between his teeth and has to fake a connection issue until he’s sure he’s stopped blushing.

He notices, as he always notices, that Eddie appears to be sleeping alone.

“Not much Eds,” he says with a shrug. Eddie tips his head to the side, his eyebrows scrunching together in concern.

The first time Richie had experienced a full-on deadlights nightmare — four days after leaving Derry — he had been borderline hysterical when he’d called Eddie at one o clock in the morning, and a very freaked out Eddie had spent three hours comforting him and calming him down and convincing him not to book a plane ticket to New York. Since then, no matter what time Richie calls, neither of them actually mentions the nightmares. Eddie still doesn’t know what Richie saw in the deadlights and he never tells Eddie what his dreams are about. Eddie always gives him an opening — _what’s up Rich, how’s it going, how’re you sleeping_ — but he never pushes Richie to talk about it, for which Richie is intensely grateful.

“I’m thinking of posting the video,” he says, and Eddie’s eyebrows jump up to his hairline. Even on a tiny phone screen, Eddie’s face is so expressive that Richie can read every tiny quirk of emotion in the movement of his eyebrows or the set of his mouth.

It had been Eddie’s idea. Richie had wanted to come out at a show, but Steve had vetoed the idea instantly. Richie had got defensive — so much for Steve being _supportive_ — but backed down when Steve explained that he was just worried that given the demographic of Richie’s fans, doing it at a show might not be safe. When Richie had called Eddie to complain about it, Eddie had instantly agreed with Steve, but suggested the idea of filming whatever he would have said at a show and posting it online instead. Eddie had even offered to help him workshop the video.

“Did you tell your mom and dad?” Eddie says, and Richie nods. “How did that go?”

“Better than I expected,” says Richie, and then sighs. “Which was stupid of me, because they never gave me any reason to expect the worst. I think they already knew, and they were nice enough not to say that they already knew. Then Mom cried, so I cried and...” he shrugs. “I’m glad I told them anyway. I told them about going back to Derry and meeting up with you guys. They were very interested in how famous half my friends are now.”

“I loved your mom and dad,” says Eddie, with a soft smile. “They were always so nice to me.”

“They loved you,” says Richie. “I think they’d have happily swapped me for you as a son, they thought you were such a sweetheart.”

“Yeah well,” Eddie grins, “apparently I was a little shit, so maybe they didn’t know me that well.”

Richie laughs quietly, and decides not to tell Eddie that he was the friend that Maggie and Went had been most interested in, that some leading questions had led to Maggie making a very disappointed noise when she’d learned Eddie was married. Richie wonders suddenly if they were kids now, would his mom look at Eddie differently? Would she not have thought about having Eddie as a son, and wondered about having him as a son-in-law?

Then he makes himself blush again thinking about it and pretends to drop his glasses as an excuse to hide his face for a moment.

“Have you shown Steve the video?” Eddie asks, once Richie has calmed down enough to look at him again. Richie nods.

“Yeah, he says it’s fine and it’s ready to go whenever I’m ready. No rush or anything. I already made a statement about…you know…”

“Throwing up on stage and then bolting and disappearing off the face of the earth for three days?”

“See, it sounds so undignified when you tell it.”

“I think it’s ready, and Steve thinks it’s ready, but if you don’t—”

“I do though,” Richie admits. “It’s fine, it’s as good as I’m ever going to get it, and I know if I was coming across like a jackass you’d tell me. It’s why I asked you to help.”

Eddie does that thing where he manages to laugh and look annoyed at the same time, and just watching the expression has warmth blooming in Richie’s chest.

“But are _you_ ready?” asks Eddie, and Richie shrugs.

“As I’ll ever be, I guess,” he says morosely, but Eddie gives him a sleepy smile and a thumbs-up.

“You have fucking got this Richie Tozier,” he says, and the affection in his expression has Richie feeling his pulse in his ears. Eddie looks at him sometimes as though…

Then Eddie yawns, and snuggles down a little deeper in his comforter, and he looks so sleepy and adorable that the tightness in Richie’s chest bursts with laughter. 

“Sorry Eds,” says Richie, “I gotta stop waking you up in the dead of night for career advice. You’ll be dozing off in your morning meeting — although honestly, I don’t understand how you don’t do that every morning.”

He expects Eddie to snap at him for that. A jab at Eddie’s job usually earns him at least a half-hearted middle finger at the screen, but instead Eddie just sighs.

“I don’t understand either,” he says. “It’s not like—”

“Not like what?”

“Nothing,” says Eddie quickly, shaking his head, and Richie sighs.

“Tell me Eds,” he says. “All we talk about is me and my stupid career that I’m wrecking. We never...you never tell me about your life.”

“My life is boring as fuck Rich,” says Eddie, yawning again as though to prove his point. “I’d rather talk about you.”

“Come on, what were you gonna say?”

“Just that...” his eyes are almost closed. He looks half asleep. “It’s not like this is the job I dreamed of doing when I was a kid, you know? When I wanted to be a pilot, or an engineer, or...”

“Or the glamorous assistant to my magic act?” says Richie, and Eddie laughs.

“That was one time, and you didn’t get a single fucking trick right.”

“Yeah, guess that wouldn’t have been a good career move for either of us.”

“I just...going back to Derry and getting all our memories back and everything...I think thirteen-year-old me would be pretty disappointed with how his life turned out.”

“Hey,” says Richie softly, a little ache in his chest. Eddie never talks like this about his own life, is alternately teasing or supportive about the other Losers attempts to fix what amnesia and repressed trauma had done to their lives, but never mentions anything about his own beyond the superficial. “Don’t say that like it’s too late to change anything. We’re forty, not eighty. Everyone else is changing things about their lives Eds. Bev left her piece of shit husband, Mike’s in Florida, I’m about to burn my entire career to the ground—” he grins when Eddie laughs again. “That could be you Eddie Spaghetti, come join the mid-life crisis club.”

“There were loads of things I imagined us doing,” says Eddie, and Richie’s heart stutters a little at the word _us_. “Like going to college together, or living in our first shitty apartment together…” He smiles again, nostalgic and sad. “We wanted to go on a road trip, remember that? We were going to take a gap year before college and just bum around the country.”

“Yeah,” says Richie, “yeah I remember that.”

Eddie closes his eyes again and shakes his head slowly.

“I wish I was still that brave,” he says quietly. “You were always braver than me...” He falls silent, and his breathing evens out and Richie realises he’s fallen asleep. He watches Eddie for a second — the rise and fall of his (scarred, but whole) chest, the way all the tension smooths out of his face, leaving him looking years younger — and then ends the call. 

Eddie never thinks of himself as brave, but Richie knows better. Richie has seen Eddie in fucking action. He gets scared easy sure, but he always does what needs doing anyway, and if that isn’t brave then what fucking is?

And if Eddie thinks _Richie_ is brave, then dammit, he’s going to be.

He grabs his phone again and brings up Twitter. This time he only hesitates for a second, the picture of himself and Eddie flooding him with warm courage, like a talisman, like a _token_.

He posts the video and goes to sleep.

***

He’s woken up in the morning by his phone vibrating against his face.

“S’up Steve?”

“You couldn’t have fucking warned me?”

“About what?”

“That you were going to post your video at two o clock in the morning! Jesus Christ Richie, you do realise the day I have a stress-related aneurysm you are getting all my medical bills?”

“Man, you knew I was going to post it. You told me it was ready.”

“It…it was ready. The video’s fine. But if you had told me _you_ were ready I would’ve been prepared for the damage control.”

Richie sits up straight in his bed.

“Is it bad?”

Steve sighs.

“Just…stay off Twitter okay?”

“You know I won’t,” Richie says, struggling to untangle his legs from his comforter to get out of bed, “not now you’ve said that. I need to—”

“People think it’s a joke.”

Richie stops, one foot on the floor, one still tied up in blankets.

“What?”

“There is some backlash from your fans — I’ve got Kelly reporting people for using slurs and hate-speech,” he says. “But a lot of people think you’re deflecting from all the speculation about what’s really going on by making gay jokes.”

“For fuck’s sake…”

“Look, I’m on it, okay? I’m going to put out a statement making it clear that it’s not a joke, and that you’re taking…I don’t know…a career break? That’s kind of how we phrased it when you cancelled the tour.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, lying back down slowly. “Yeah that’s…whatever you think is best.”

“Okay,” Steve says briskly. “Take it easy okay? Just lie low for a few days until I can get this under control. Kelly’s going to change your Twitter password—”

“Steve—”

“No. I don’t want you logging in and spending hours arguing with assholes or reading the shit they’re saying. Kelly’s dealing with it, just stay off the internet for now.”

“I…fine.”

Steve hangs up, and Richie stares at the icons for Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. There’s probably a TMZ article about him by now, maybe Buzzfeed too. He could just Google his own name, see how bad it is.

He throws his phone on the floor and pulls the covers over his head.

A few hours later he wakes up and rather than checking social media he looks at the messages in the Losers group chat. They’re all ferocious and supportive and Richie tries not to focus on the fact that none of them are from Eddie.

Then two hours after the statement has been posted, Eddie sends a message to their private chat.

 **Eds:** I’ve just seen your statement. I am stuck in the meeting from hell, I’ll call you the minute I’m done. I'm SO fucking proud of you.

This message is followed by several angry face emojis, because apparently Eddie is so proud it translates into rage. Richie laughs and feels the tight knot of tension in his stomach ease just a little.

True to his word, an hour and a half later Eddie calls, while Richie is in the middle of listlessly making a sandwich.

“Have you _just now_ left the same meeting?” he asks, and Eddie huffs impatiently.

“Rich I wanted to kill myself with a stapler,” he says, sounding tired. “How are you? Please tell me you’re not looking at Twitter.”

“I'm not, Steve told me to stay off it.”

“What do you need?” asks Eddie, and the question is so unexpected that the truth falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“I need a hug,” he says, and then laughs at himself for sounding like a toddler.

Eddie is silent for a moment.

“You want me to fly out there?” he says, and Richie freezes, wondering if he misheard.

“What?”

“I'll come to LA,” he says, “if you need me to. I can be on the next flight out.”

“Eddie,” he says, his voice too fucking soft. “Eddie I’m not going to ask you to fly across the country just because I’m having a minor crisis. You have a job and stuff dude.”

“Fuck it,” says Eddie easily. “My priorities aren’t that screwed Rich.”

“I...” Richie hesitates. The truth is...he wants Eddie on the next flight to LA so badly it’s a little bit painful to think about it. He wants Eddie fussing about the state of his kitchen, nagging him to take a shower and get dressed. He wants to set him on the journalists camped outside his house and watch them shit their pants.

He wants a fucking hug.

But he’s a little afraid of what he might blurt out if he saw Eddie in real life. It’s hard sometimes to keep it in when all of their communication is over the phone, with thousands of miles distance between them. Real-world, in the flesh Eddie with his arms round Richie is definitely a hazard.

He sighs.

“I’m coping Eds, I promise,” he says, and Eddie hums, disapprovingly.

“Kay,” he says eventually. “If you’re sure. If you change your mind though, it’s an open-ended offer to come to LA and fight off journalists with a big stick.”

Richie laughs.

“I'll bear it in mind.”

“At least go hit up Bill or something,” he says. “Don’t stay at home on your own, you'll be tempted to start arguing with douche-bags on Twitter.”

“Is it that bad?”

“I deactivated my account,” Eddie replies moodily. “I could tell it was going to get bad for my blood pressure.”

***

A week later, Richie sits on his balcony and bitterly regrets not asking Eddie to come to LA.

The campsite of journalists that had descended outside his apartment complex have been herded away by now, but he still hasn’t been outside. It’s not like he even needs to run into anyone from the press to be exposed — any idiot with a phone in their pocket could recognise him and have a picture to sell minutes later.

What he wants is out of LA, the overwhelming urge to just _hide hide hide_.

Bill has offered him the spare room at his place — after awkwardly revealing that Audra had decided to stay with some friends in San Francisco while they “sort things out” — but that’s still in LA. Stan is still on vacation with his wife, and Mike is in Florida, staying with some internet friends that probably wouldn’t appreciate the sudden appearance of a C-list celebrity in the middle of a PR scandal.

Ben and Bev are gratifyingly far away from LA, and he knows that if he called them and asked they’d trip over themselves to make him welcome, but Bev is in the middle of her own crisis at the moment, with her ex telling the press that her allegations are made up, and fighting her legally over their company, and he doesn’t exactly want to drag her into his shit too.

Which leaves Eddie, but the thought of turning up at the apartment Eddie shares with his wife, lying in a guest room while they share a bed next door, makes him a little sick. Especially when he could have had Eddie here, in his apartment, teasing him and fighting with him and taking care of him.

Now what he has is a whole week with next to no communication with Eddie at all. There’s a handful of one-word answers to Richie’s messages in their private chat, nothing from him in the group chat and several phone calls and face time requests from Richie that have gone unanswered. He’s heard from Eddie every day since leaving Derry, even if it was nothing more than a stupid meme or a couple of emojis in the group chat, and now almost nothing.

He wonders if Eddie had been offended by Richie turning down his offer to fly to LA. He hadn’t sounded annoyed about it, and passive-aggressive sulking is not Eddie’s style anyway. When he’s mad he’s not afraid to tell people about it.

He moves on to worrying that it’s just _him_. That maybe what he had been afraid of — Eddie going back to his life and forgetting all about Richie — had just taken a little longer than he had expected. That now all of Eddie’s memories had returned and he’d also got to know adult Richie and realised that he hadn’t changed, he’s still obnoxious and loud and clingy and demanding and maybe Eddie’s just _done_ with him.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he wonders if it’s happened. If finally their little bit of magic — their borrowed time — has run out, and Eddie has been taken back. He looks at Stan’s messages and his vacation pictures in the group chat and breathes a little easier, because if Stan is still around then Eddie must be too. But then, that means Eddie _is_ just ignoring him, and the cycle starts again.

After three days of complete silence from Eddie, Richie calls Bev.

“Tozier!” She sounds so excited to get a call from him that he almost cries.

“Marsh!” His voice is almost steady, thankfully.

“How’re you doing Richie?” she says. “You still got paps shimmying up your drainpipes?”

“Nah,” he scoffs. “I’m not that interesting, I think they’ve given up on me. You?”

“Yeah,” she sighs heavily. “I don’t think mine are going away any time soon. Just when I think it’s dying down he says something else to the press and there they are again. Fucking vultures.”

They while away a happy half hour bitching about the paparazzi, and a little about Bev’s ex, which she had been uncomfortable with when they first left Derry but seems to have warmed to. Eventually there’s a lull in conversation, and Richie takes a deep breath.

“I actually…I called you about Eddie,” he says, preparing himself for Bev to laugh at him, or question him, or suddenly just… _know_. Instead she sighs again.

“I know,” she says, “I’m worried about him too.”

“Oh God,” he hunches in on himself, pressing the phone to his ear, “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. I kind of hoped you’d tell me I was being paranoid.”

“I’ve hardly spoken to him for about a week,” she says. “Me and Ben have been seeing him all the time since we got here, but I’ve messaged him asking him to come round for dinner or meet me for brunch like four times and he’s said no every time. He was going running with Ben some mornings, but they haven’t done that this week either.”

“When did you last see him?”

“What day is it now? Thursday? The weekend before last. I had dinner with him when Ben was out of town for the weekend — I put a picture in the group chat.”

“You did?

“Yes!” Bev laughs softly. “Scroll back and look, you’ll…appreciate it.”

Richie’s not sure what _that’s_ supposed to mean, so he ignores it and carries on worrying.

“He never…” Richie hesitates. “He never tells me anything. Like, we talk pretty much every day, but he never tells me anything about his life or how he’s doing or anything. We always talk about me. Shit, I think I might be the worst best friend ever,” he says miserably. Bev makes a sympathetic noise.

“I promise you’re not,” she says. “He deflects, he does it with me and Ben as well. I’ll just get to the point of asking him about something and he changes the subject or redirects the question, and I don’t realise he’s done it until later. He’s fucking good at it too, he’d be a terrifying lawyer.”

“I should have tried harder though."

“Listen, it’s Thursday now. I’m going to try and pin him down this weekend but if I can’t I’ll call you on Monday and we’ll…I don’t know…have a crisis meeting or something. Find out if anyone else has heard from him — I know he was talking to Stan a lot.”

“I…yeah, okay. Sounds like a plan Red.”

“Good. Get some sleep Richie, try not to worry too much. It’s Eddie, whatever’s going on I’m sure he’s handling it. And if he’s not…he’s got us now, right?”

“Right. Night Marsh. Kiss your man goodnight for me.”

“I will.”

“I mean it,” he says, “plenty of tongue.”

She laughs, and he finally smiles.

“You got it Trashmouth. I’ll talk to you soon.”

He disconnects his call with Bev, and after a moment opens up the group chat and scrolls back, past some more of Stan’s photos and a weirdly long conversation about conspiracy theories between Mike and Bill until he gets to the picture Bev’s talking about. It’s Eddie, sitting at a table on the terrace of some fancy cafe in the city; it’s captioned _Eddie standing in as my date while Ben is out of town_. He’s framed by the sunset, the sky behind him pink and gold and highlighting the planes of his angular face, making his dark eyes look liquid and glossy. He’s leaning his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table, smiling lazily at Bev, and Richie’s palms are sweating just looking at him. He looks so fucking _handsome_ , but he also looks happy — relaxed and at-ease, smiling at his friend and drinking wine in the New York evening.

He saves the picture, and wonders if Eddie is still smiling like that now. 

***

_They’re sitting on a beach. The sun is beating down, sparkling like diamonds on the waves, turning the sand into white gold. Bill and Mike are batting an inflatable ball between the two of them, Stan sitting criss-cross applesauce and watching them intently. Richie looks over to his right; Ben and Bev are curled up together on a sun-lounger, sharing an extravagant cocktail with two colorful straws. Ben gives him a benign smile, Bev winks._

_He looks to his left and there’s Eddie, in a loose pink t-shirt with a smudge of sunblock over his nose. He smiles widely at Richie, and then stretches to his feet, leans over Richie and kisses him softly._

_“I’m gonna go get a drink, okay Rich?” he says softly. Richie nods numbly, and Eddie turns away, walking slowly along the sand towards a small kiosk half a mile away. The beach is busy and before long Richie can’t make out Eddie in the crowd, there are too many people all packed together and Richie starts to panic._

_Bev,” he says, turning back to her, “Bev, can you see Eddie?”_

_Bev and Ben exchange a glance, careful and awkward._

_"Rich we...” she says softly, “we’ve been through this. Eddie isn’t here, Eddie isn’t coming back. He...don’t you remember Richie? In Derry? Eddie di—”_

_"No,” Richie shakes his head, “no no no. That didn’t happen, he came back remember? He and Stan—” but when he turns back to the ball game, it’s just Bill and Mike looking at him warily. Richie turns back to Bev, but her expression is icy now._

_“He died Richie, Eddie died in Derry, and I don’t know how much longer you expect us to be sympathetic about it when it was all your fault.”_

_"What?”_

_“You saw it happen, didn’t you?” she spits. “You got a warning in the deadlights, you could have saved him but you didn’t. You just lay there, looking at him and wondering if he was going to kiss you, and you let him die.”_

_“No, I didn’t...there wasn’t_ time _, I couldn’t—”_

 _But Bev stands up, and Ben follows and the four of them take off down the beach, leaving him alone. But he’s not alone, he can tell, and he knows if he turns around he’ll see it...he’ll see_ It. _He’s shaking, and his stomach is churning but he turns and sees—_

_His bedroom wall. The blurry outline of the posters littering the wallpaper. The vague grey light creeping in from under his blinds, familiar from living in a city which never really switches off._

_He takes a deep, shivery breath and wipes his eyes, before reaching for his phone. If he can see the photo of Eddie, taken in New York weeks after Derry, he’ll know. He’ll know it was just a dream, that he didn’t really let Eddie die in a sewer in that evil town._

_The picture isn’t there. There’s nothing from Eddie in the group chat, and his private conversation with Eddie doesn’t exist. He doesn’t have_ Eds _in his contacts and there are no calls to or from a New York number._

_Richie can’t breathe. He presses his hand to his chest but the wheezing sound reminds him of Eddie, which doesn’t help, when Eddie is dead and Richie killed him—_

Richie wakes up with a gasp, and immediately throws up over the side of the bed. He coughs and struggles to lift himself to a sitting position when he’s shaking violently. He sips from the bottle of water by his bed (it’s a bottle not a glass, because Eddie kept nagging at him about drinking from a glass of water left open for hours) and stares at his phone. He doesn’t pick it up, just pokes at it warily until it lights up, still showing the picture from the group chat that Richie had saved.

He lets out a breath, and drinks some more water.

Well...that's new. He's almost getting used to the dreams, the reruns of his deadlights vision and Eddie’s violent death. But this...this is almost what he's more afraid of these days — that he'll wake up to find that Eddie’s resurrection has been all in his head, or been taken back in some way, and he’ll have to lose Eddie all over again.

And all the Losers will know it was his fault.

He picks up the phone and dials Eddie’s number, staring at the picture while he waits for the call to connect, waits for it to disappear and be replaced by Eddie’s living, breathing self. Eddie's been distant this past week but he's never ignored a call from Richie in the middle of the night.

Eddie doesn’t answer, but that’s not unusual. It’s almost two in the morning, and Eddie doesn’t always answer right away. Richie gets up, cleans the floor, brushes his teeth and makes some coffee, before sitting down on his couch and trying Eddie again. He still doesn’t answer, and eventually Richie falls into a fitful sleep, the phone still showing the picture of Eddie, pressed against Richie’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Next time - things actually happen!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	4. What a Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie spends a lot of time on the phone and makes some decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW in this chapter for - 
> 
> References to toxic and abusive relationships, including Sonia, Myra and their effect on Eddie's self-esteem and identity.
> 
> Instances of depression.
> 
> References to online harassment and homophobia.

_I've got troubled thoughts_

_And the self-esteem to match_

_What a catch_

_What a catch_

_What a Catch, Donnie - Fallout Boy_

After ending his phone call with Bev on Thursday, Richie had deliberated for a while before firing off what he thought was a reasonably casual message to Eddie – _not heard from you for a while, just checking in, hope you’re ok_ – and had tried not to think about it. He had met up with Bill on Friday, who had also been trying to talk to Eddie without success, and Richie had then spent most of the weekend trying fruitlessly to write.

Having agreed to wait until Monday to hear from Eddie before he does anything, he’s still had to practically sit on his hands the entire weekend to stop himself from doing something dramatic and stupid, like telling Bev to scale the building and climb in Eddie’s window or booking himself a flight to New York.

On Sunday evening his phone rings while he’s throwing dinner together, and he drops what he’s doing to grab at it immediately, hoping that it’s Bev with some good news. When he blindly accepts the face time request however, it isn’t Bev who pops up on the screen.

“Eddie!”

Abandoning his half-formed meal in the kitchen, Richie drops onto the couch in relief. “God man, I’ve been worried about you. Thought you forgot about me all over again.”

“I know, I’m sorry Rich,” he says, with a wan smile. He looks _exhausted_ , his eyes huge and shadowed and his cheekbones extra prominent in his pale face. He’s tucked into the corner of a sofa, but it’s not the blocky, navy blue one that Richie knows lives in Eddie’s apartment. It’s small and scrubby and beige, and Richie can see a cream-coloured wall and an unfamiliar painting behind Eddie’s head. He’s wearing a faded grey NYU sweater that’s too big for him, the sleeves pulled over his hands like mittens.

“What’s going on Eds?”

“I didn’t mean to ignore you, I promise,” he says. He doesn’t even sound like himself, quiet and listless. “I’ve just been really busy this week.”

“Sure,” says Richie warily. “Always risks to be analysed.”

“I quit.”

“What?”

“My job,” Eddie says, rubbing his eyes ferociously with the heel of his hand. “I quit. And I told Myra I wanted a divorce, I’m in a hotel room right now.” He hesitates, and looks at Richie almost nervously. “And I’m...I’m gay. So, when you said _come join the mid-life crisis club,_ I thought I’d get all mine out of the way in the same two weeks.” He quirks a weak smile at the screen, and then his eyebrows contract in concern. “Rich?”

Richie knows he needs to say something, and quickly before it gets weird, but he suddenly can’t think of any words that might be helpful right now.

“Guh?” is what eventually comes out, and Eddie nods.

“Yeah, I know. That’s pretty much how I feel.”

“I...God, give me a minute,” says Richie. “That’s a lot of information to take in at once.”

Richie lets out a long, shuddering breath, suddenly uncomfortable under Eddie’s scrutiny. Eddie quit his job. Eddie’s leaving his wife. Eddie’s _gay_.

Richie can barely think the words to himself; the idea is too bright in his mind, like looking into the sun. But this isn’t about Richie, this is about Eddie, who obviously needs his friend right now. This shouldn’t feel like a chance or a shot but it’s so hard to push down that fluttering in his chest that feels like hope—

“Anyway,” Eddie says, apparently running out of patience with Richie’s attempts to find something to say, “that’s how my week is going. I’m really sorry I didn’t pick up the other night, did you have a nightmare? I was just tired, I was completely out of it. Have you been—”

“Eddie, I swear to god...” Eddie’s words finally permeate the glowy pink haze in Richie’s mind and he snaps out of his spiral. “I am not letting you get away with that tonight, are you fucking kidding me? For once we are going to talk about your life.”

Eddie stares at him blankly for a second, and Richie’s seconds away from apologising for being so pushy, when Eddie shakes his head.

“I _tried_ Rich,” he says, and his voice is shaky, thick with tears. “I really did try to go back to my life, to do what I was supposed to do. But I was at work staring at this never-ending mountain of meaningless bullshit paperwork on my desk and I just thought, _is this it?_ Like, I _died_ , and a fucking magic turtle granted me a miracle and brought me back to life and this is what I’m going to do with it – the same shit that was making me so miserable before? So...I quit.”

“And...and Myra?” Richie says, tentatively. Eddie closes his eyes and shakes his head.

Eddie hasn’t been forthcoming about any aspect of his life in New York, but his wife has been particularly out-of-bounds as a conversational subject. Richie had attempted, reluctantly, to ask about her in the first week after they had left Derry, but Eddie had always shut the conversation down and Richie had let him -- after all, it wasn’t as though he particularly wanted to hear about the person who got to share Eddie’s life. He thought that Eddie was simply trying to avoid giving Richie an opening to start making _your wife_ jokes, but it was hard not to read into Eddie’s total refusal to mention her, especially compared to the amount of adorable selfies that Ben and Bev sent to the group chat, or the way Stan gushed about Patty.

“We weren’t happy,” Eddie says eventually. “I don’t know if we’ve ever been happy. I think I just forgot what happy really felt like. We’re just...bad for each other. Even if...even if I wasn’t...”

“Gay?” says Richie softly. Eddie swallows thickly, Richie tracks the motion down his throat, and then he nods.

“Gay,” he confirms. “Which I am.”

“Is this...” Richie hesitates. God, where to even start? “Is this something you’re just realising now?”

“No,” says Eddie, soft but sure. “No, I’ve always known. When I was in college I...anyway,” he brushes this aside with a jerky shake of the head, a little flush giving his pale cheeks some colour. “I just didn’t let myself think about it, but I definitely knew what I wasn’t letting myself think about, you know? Does that make sense? I can’t even tell anymore, I’m so fucking tired.” He rubs his eyes again, punctuating his point.

“Makes sense to me.”

“Oh good,” says Eddie, with a weak smile, “that’s how I know I’m not crazy.” His smile falls from his face quickly, and he levels Richie with those mournful eyes. “I’m really sorry though, I should’ve said something when you did. I shouldn’t have let you go through that by yourself when we could’ve done it together.”

“Eddie, that’s not...you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You don’t owe that to anyone, you deal with these things when you’re ready.”

“Still, it was selfish of me. I _am_ selfish, I know I am—”

“You are not selfish—”

“Myra says I’m selfish,” Eddie says quietly, no longer looking at Richie but staring blankly into the middle distance. “My mom used to say it all the time.”

“Eddie,” says Richie carefully, “every time you wanted to do anything for yourself, your mom said you were selfish. When you wanted to try out for the track team or every time you wanted to go on a field trip you were selfish. That’s about her, not about you. _She_ was selfish.”

Eddie nods like he agrees, but his mouth is still turned down at the corners.

“I’m just like her,” he says eventually, and Richie’s stomach coils in anger.

“Eddie, you are nothing like your fucking mother.”

“Yeah, I am,” he sighs, resigned and sad. “I always knew I was, but before we all went back to Derry I’d forgotten there was ever a time when I wasn’t. But I am, I’m selfish and obsessive and _poisonous_ ,” Eddie says viciously, swiping the tears from his face with his sweater sleeve and Richie wants to wrap him up in his arms and just squeeze the spiky misery out of him. How is he supposed to have this conversation with three-thousand miles between them?

“Eddie,” he says seriously. “Eddie you are none of those things, you’re my best friend. You were then and you still are now, and I’ll fight anyone talking shit about my best friend, even you.”

This raises a weak smile out of Eddie, and he sniffs.

“I started therapy,” he says eventually. “Myra didn’t want me to, she thought a therapist would...I don’t fucking know...brainwash me or something. But I did it anyway.”

“That’s good,” Richie says. “That’s really brave.”

“She – my therapist – she talks a lot about the different ways people love each other, different ways to show it – good ways and bad ways. I _worry_ about you guys all the time. I worry about Bev when she has to deal with her shitty ex, and I worry about Mike staying with people he met on the internet and doesn’t know and _god,_ they could be a fucking cult or something. And I worry about _you_ , when you’re unhappy and not sleeping and when there’s fucking parasitic journalists camping on your doorstep—”

“Eddie...”

“—and half of it is reasonable things to worry about and half of it’s just the anxiety talking. But it makes me want to wrap you all up in bubble-wrap and that’s...that’s just like her isn’t it? That’s just what my mom did to me?”

“But you don’t do that Eds.” It’s painful to force the words out around the lump in his throat, but he’s close to tears at the hatred etched into the harsh lines of Eddie’s tired face. “You recognise when you’re worrying too much and you _don’t_ wrap us in bubble-wrap. Your mom lied to you and manipulated you and made you feel guilty for just wanting to be a normal kid. You wanting to come to LA and beat paps with a big stick is not the same thing – that’s a practical solution to a real problem.”

Eddie gives him a watery smile.

“I love you guys _so_ much,” he says quietly. “I just...I have no idea how to do it right.”

“Eddie,” says Richie seriously. “You do it just fine. How could you possibly be selfish when you literally got yourself killed saving my stupid life?”

“Well,” Eddie’s mouth twists, “if it makes you feel any better I did it the lamest way possible. Just in case you started thinking I looked cool or anything.”

“Are you kidding me?” Richie demands, outraged. “You javelin-speared a gigantic space monster through the face with a fence post, like a crazy little badass.”

“Like an idiot,” says Eddie, but a smile is starting to tug at the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, you didn’t even see that. Too busy taking your mid-air cave nap.”

“Bev has described it to me in great detail,” says Richie, truthfully, “and it sounds sexy as hell. One of my top Eddie Kaspbrak moments.”

This finally coaxes a laugh out of Eddie, and Richie glows.

“That a long list is it?”

“Obviously,” says Richie, holding up his hand to count them on his fingers. “Coming back from the dead – that’s number one, although I guess you sort of share that with Stan.”

“Fair,” Eddie nods sagely.

“Spearing a monster through the face with a fence post. Almost strangling it to death with your bare hands in the pharmacy. Pulling a knife out of your own face to stab Bowers in the chest. You were the one who figured out that calling It an ugly loser would finish it off. Hell, you kicked that same space monster in the face when you were just a tiny, angry little Edlet. Fuck,” he grins at Eddie’s flustered, blushing face, “Eds you might be a superhero.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Eddie mutters, fighting a smile. “Do I have to come up with my top Richie Tozier moments?”

“Definitely.”

“Like hitting it in the face with a baseball bat?” Eddie laughs again. “ _Welcome to the Losers Club asshole_!”

“My finest moment,” Richie beams. “I’ll never be that cool again.”

The smile fades slightly from Eddie’s face but his eyes look a little less watery and some of the tension bleeds from his hunched shoulders.

“What will you do now?” Richie asks.

“I don’t know,” says Eddie with a shrug. “I didn’t really have a plan when I did this. I just set fire to my entire life and then ran away like a coward.”

“I don’t know, it sounds kind of badass to me.”

“It was not,” says Eddie, a crooked little smile tugging at his mouth. “When I was leaving our apartment I was trying to pack some stuff and I was fucking...hyperventilating the entire time while Myra’s yelling at me for never getting a new inhaler after Derry and I’m thinking, _it’s not fucking asthma it’s a panic attack_. So I kind of blacked out and whirled around the apartment like a crazy person and like, okay, I left behind most of my clothes and had to buy all my toiletries again but I apparently thought it was super important to go into my closet full of mysterious bullshit that I haven’t even opened since we moved to that apartment and grab half the stuff from in there.”

“Wow,” says Richie. “I’m genuinely intrigued to know what was in your closet of mysterious bullshit.”

“I don’t even know,” Eddie groans. “I haven’t looked in that bag yet. Want to see what I did bring with me? I only remembered my laptop because it was still in my car but I couldn’t leave home without...” He leans forward out of frame for a second, and then reappears with a grin on his face. A spatula. An egg-timer shaped like a chicken. An impressively hideous statuette of a shepherdess in a frilly dress and bonnet. He holds them all up individually, making dramatic hand gestures like he’s hawking overpriced crap on a shopping channel, and by the time Richie’s laughing enough to make him whine, “Shut the fuck up! I panicked!” Eddie is laughing himself, high-pitched and hysterical.

“I can’t believe you just...” Richie trails off, wondering how to phrase it without making Eddie prickly. “Like, Ben and Bev are in the same city. They love you, you didn’t have to do this all by yourself.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, his face serious again, “yeah I did.”

“They wouldn’t--”

“I know!” says Eddie quickly. “I know they would’ve wanted to help, it’s not about them. I had to know I could do it alone, that I could handle doing something for myself.”

“It sounds like you’re handling it,” says Richie. “I mean, granted the spatula isn’t great evidence for your mental state—” Richie laughs as Eddie pretends to hit him with it through the screen. “But you fucking did it. You’re out, you’re free.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie softly. “It’s just...what next? I can’t stay in this hotel forever, obviously. Ben and Bev said I could stay with them, and Mike asked me to go stay with him and his internet friends down in Florida but...”

“But you think they might be the Manson family?”

“I _don’t_ think they’re the Manson family,” Eddie gripes. “I don’t know who they are, that’s the point. It doesn’t matter right now anyway, I still have to work a month's notice and then I should probably sleep for seventy-two hours solid. I’m going for a run with Ben in the morning, I’ll feel better after that.”

“That is literally the most insane thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“D’you know...” Eddie hesitates, nibbling at his bottom lip. “I started running with Ben when they came back to New York, and it was nice. Myra never liked me running because she said it would be bad for my asthma but Ben always...I don’t know...he’s encouraging and fun and it was nice to share it with a friend. But Myra hated it more when it was with Ben. She hated me spending time with Ben more than she hated me spending time with Bev. When I told her why I wanted a divorce, she was angry but she wasn’t surprised. I think she knew even when I didn’t.”

“Does she think you and Ben are having an affair?”

“No,” says Eddie. “I don’t think she’s deluded enough to think I could land Ben. Besides,” Eddie yawns, “he _is_ hot, but I don’t think he’s my type.”

Interesting — Ben isn’t Eddie’s type. More interesting — Eddie _has_ a type. Now isn’t the time to question that though, but Richie files it away to bring up later, when Eddie doesn’t look so breakable.

“Will you tell the others what’s going on?” he says. “No pressure or anything obviously, but your week going off-grid means everyone’s kind of worried about you.”

“I’ll tell them,” Eddie nods. “I’m ready, it doesn’t scare me.”

“Really?” Richie frowns. “Scared the fuck out of me.”

“Well I guess it helps that you went first,” he says and Richie smiles. “But, I don’t know, the idea of telling other people isn’t as scary as admitting it to myself. But just in case you start thinking I have a good handle on this, I need you to know that the first time I said the words out loud — just to myself — I did throw up immediately afterwards. So,” he shrugs, but then smirks at Richie, “I guess we’re kindred spirits now.”

“Eddie!” he exclaims gleefully. “We can start a support group, _Nervous Vomiters Anonymous_.”

“Sure,” says Eddie, “so long as the meetings don’t clash with Masturbators Anonymous.”

Richie laughs, delighted.

“Feeling a little better, are we? Suddenly you’re funny again?”

Eddie grins and starts to respond but a jaw-cracking yawn interrupts him, and Richie laughs.

“Not that I’m trying to bail on you or anything, but—”

“No, it’s okay, I didn’t mean to keep you on the phone this long.”

“No, it’s not that,” Richie says seriously. “I always want to talk to you, it’s just...Eds, you look _wiped_.”

Eddie nods.

“Yeah, like I said, once all my work is done I’m going to sleep for an entire week. Speaking of, I’ve got paperwork I should be catching up on.”

“No, Eddie, for once in our lives I’m the one talking sense. Go to bed. Edward. Edward Spaghedward. Edward go to bedward—”

“For fuck’s sake!” A laugh bursts out of Eddie, childish and snorty, and he sounds so much like his kid-self that a little ache blossoms in Richie’s chest. “I’m going, I’m going.”

“Good,” says Richie firmly. “If I call you at three in the morning after a nightmare and you answer I’m going to be very disappointed—”

“Hey,” says Eddie, soft and serious again, “you can. I mean it, it doesn’t matter what time it is or what else is going on. If you need me, call me.”

“I should be talking myself down after the bad dreams by now,” he says, but Eddie frowns fiercely.

“But you don’t have to,” he says. “That’s what we all said right? Everything is survivable if we have each other. Well...you have me.”

He smiles, sweet and guileless, like it’s nothing to promise that, like it doesn’t turn Richie’s insides into _soup._

“Thanks Eddie,” he says, and Eddie hangs up, leaving Richie to stare at his lock-screen selfie for five full minutes after Eddie has gone, taking deep breaths and waiting for the trembling to stop.

He managed to keep a lid on an internal meltdown long enough to comfort Eddie, which is the main thing. Eddie had been smiling and laughing again by the end of the call, and all Richie’s ever really wanted is to make Eddie laugh.

Their weekend in Derry seems far away now, all those feelings slamming back into him with the time and trauma and _grief_ to give it all so much extra weight. But Richie had gone back to his life and Eddie had gone back to his and Richie had tried so hard not to pine, to just miss his best friend a normal amount and not torment himself with thoughts of the impossible.

But Eddie’s gay. Eddie’s getting a divorce and quitting his job and all the things tying him down to his unhappy life in New York are being snipped away, one-by-one, leaving him free.

But free to do what? That is the question, and Eddie doesn’t seem to have the answer yet, but Richie has answers, and an idea, just percolating beneath the surface of his skin, simmering away gently but insistently. Eddie still has loose ends to tie up, and still needs time to come to terms with what he’s doing, but that’s fine, Richie can wait.

He’s waited pretty much his whole life for Eddie Kaspbrak, he can wait just a little longer.

***

A week or so after Eddie’s Midlife Crisis Week, Ben calls.

“Haystack!” Richie exclaims, surprised and delighted. “To what do I owe the genuine pleasure?”

“Bev’s having a party,” says Ben, “at the end of the month, and she wants to invite you.”

“Oh? Are we doing Losers Halloween for the first time as adults?” asks Richie, charmed by the idea.

“Sadly, no,” Ben sighs. “That’s why I’m calling — it’s not _Bev_ who’s throwing the party really, it’s her PR team. She’s just starting to get her new studio up and running and her publicist thought it would be a good idea to do something to show that she’s doing well.”

“ _Is_ she doing well?” Richie asks, and Ben doesn’t answer for a while, humming thoughtfully.

“She’s doing better,” he says eventually. “Opening up the studio and starting to work on her own designs has helped. She’s worried that people will believe what he’s saying — that she’s crazy, or making it all up or whatever bullshit he’s spouting recently,” he spits, with uncharacteristic venom. “But she’s having fun putting this party together, so it seems like it wasn’t a terrible idea.”

“So wait — this is like, an industry party then? With fashionable people? And she wants us Losers in attendance?”

“I think she’d appreciate the moral support,” says Ben. “But I just wanted you to know that it’s going to be very press-heavy, and if you’re not ready for that then she’ll absolutely understand,” he says, and his voice is so gentle and understanding that it floods with Richie with warm affection. “Bill isn’t coming for that reason — doesn’t want to have to answer questions about Audra yet — and Mike is at a history conference with what seems to be the entirety of librarian Twitter.”

“Nerd,” Richie sighs.

“It looks pretty cool!” Ben protests. “I’m kind of jealous—”

“Nerd,” Richie says again, with more force, and Ben laughs.

“Stan and Patty are flying out for it though,” he says. “And on god I am going to drag Eddie there by the ankles if I have to. He needs to leave that hotel room for something other than work and running.”

“How is he doing?” Richie asks. He’s back to speaking to Eddie pretty much daily, has heard him shriek with laughter and struggle to talk through choked back tears, but it’s not that same as actually seeing him in person.

“He’s...not great,” Ben admits. “He’s blaming himself for pretty much everything and second guessing all of his decisions. He’s spent so long listening to his wife tell him all the things he can’t handle, and before that his mom...well, you remember,” he says, and Richie fucking does remember. They had all grown up listening to Sonia telling Eddie all the things he wasn’t capable of, how _delicate_ he was. It hurts to think of it happening all over again. “Truthfully I don’t think there’s anything he can’t handle,” says Ben, genuine pride in his voice. “He’s tough, tougher than he gives himself credit for. I keep telling him, _you speared a clown demon through the face, you can handle getting divorced_ ,” he says and Richie laughs, making a promise to himself to hug Ben extra tight the next time they’re in the same room. “I think he’ll probably be a little better when he’s not dragging himself into that office every day. You know his wife turned up there twice already?”

“Yeah,” Richie says darkly, “yeah he did tell me that.”

“She’s banned from the building now,” Ben says, “but I don’t think he really feels safe there. So...I don’t know. He’s not okay, but I can picture him being okay, in the near future.”

“I’m glad he’s got you two out there looking after him.”

“We’re doing our best. He doesn’t _like_ being looked after,” Ben admits, with a rueful laugh. “I think he’d like to see you.”

His tone is mild when he says this, no judgement, nothing to suggest he’s thinking anything other than what he’s saying, and Richie is overwhelmingly grateful for him.

“Yeah,” says Richie, “don’t worry. I’ve got a plan in the works Benny-boy, once Eds is free from the chains of working-class oppression—”

“I think you’re picturing his job all wrong,” says Ben, and Richie can hear the smile in his voice. “He makes pretty good money you know.”

“Chained to a desk!” Richie insists. He does know this, because he’d made several awkward attempts to enquire about Eddie’s financial security in the couple of days after he’d found out Eddie was living in a hotel, only to retreat with his tail between his legs when Eddie finally told him what was in his savings account after working his heart attack-inducingly stressful job for more than ten years with no vacations.

“Alright Richie,” Ben laughs. “Well, whatever you’ve got planned, I know he misses you. He talks about you a lot.”

This lights a little fire in Richie’s chest — the idea of Eddie thinking about him once their phone calls have ended, talking about him to their friends — and he smiles to himself.

“So...Bev’s party,” Richie says, before something stupid and revealing pours out of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Ben says, immediately allowing the change in subject, “I’ll send you the details, but see how you feel. If you decide to come, you won’t be the only loser there, but if you decide not to, you won’t be the only one _not_ there either. Whatever you’re ready for.”

“I’ll think about it,” Richie promises.

***

Midway through October, Richie gets a call from Steve. They exchange brief pleasantries, but Richie can tell from the start that this is more than just a _how are you_ call.

“What’s up Steve?”

“I need to ask you a question that I know you’re going to hate,” he says, which isn’t encouraging. “Do you have any idea what you want to do next?”

Richie fidgets, fights the urge to throw his phone out of the window. Steve had brought up the abandoned tour dates at the end of September, wondering when Richie would be ready to pin down a time to try again, but the idea of waking up from his nightmares in a hotel room with a shaky Wi-Fi connection and not being able to immediately get in touch with Eddie had been enough to make him completely veto the idea.

“I still don’t want to go back on tour.” 

“And that’s fine!” Steve says immediately. “But we should be doing _something_ , something to keep your name in the news. I did have an idea...”

Richie’s stomach coils a little with anxiety, but it seems unfair not at least hear him out.

“Go on...”

“Well, you said you had fun working on your coming out video, so what about making more.”

“Videos? About what?” Richie asks dumbly, and Steve laughs, but kindly.

“Whatever you want,” he says. “Even if each video is ten minutes long and it’s just you cooking dinner. If you want to start writing your own material, people need a taste of the real you. You’re funny Richie, and you’re funniest when you’re off the cuff, improvising. Even if it’s just for a YouTube channel—”

“I dunno man, I haven’t been online since I came out but I’m pretty sure I’m still cancelled. No one’s going to watch anything I make other than to talk shit in the comments.”

“It’s getting better Richie, I promise,” he says gently, and then his tone briskly turns business-like again. “I’m getting Kelly to set it up anyway, because starting the channel will be enough to create a bit of hype. No pressure, no rush but just...think about it.”

“Okay,” Richie promises, for the second time that week, “I’ll think about it.”

Apparently he has a lot to think about.

He expects Steve to give his customary swift goodbye and hang up, but he lingers over the call in a suddenly charged silence.

“There’s one other thing,” he says, eventually. “I know you haven’t been on social media, and this is _not_ me advising you to start..."

“But?” Richie prompts, apprehensively.

“Well...Jacob tweeted about you.”

He says it so carefully, but the effect is instantaneous. Richie’s breath catches painfully in his chest, and there’s the beginning of panic clutching at his stomach.

“I know,” Steve says soothingly. “It’s nothing bad, it’s supportive, I guess. People know you guys worked together when you were living in Chicago so it’s not like it looks weird for him to comment. He’s still blocked from all your actual social media accounts, but I didn’t want you to just stumble across it without warning.”

“I...yeah, thanks Steve,” he says, unconvincingly. Steve sighs.

“He’s just an ex Richie,” he says softly. “Everyone has them. He’s a really shitty one obviously, but that’s all he is. Don’t give him that real estate in your head.” He pauses again, but Richie can’t think of anything to fill the silence. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, in a hollow voice, “I’ll be fine.”

Steve eventually does end the call, and Richie blankly grabs his laptop, firing it up and opening Twitter before he’s even aware of what he’s doing. Steve’s right, it is a generic tweet, it barely suggests they even _know_ each other, let alone...

He should log off. He knows he should. As a first real foray back into social media, this is not a good one, but he’s here now, anxiety itching under his skin and filling his brain with a grey fog until suddenly hours have passed and all he’s done is read the very worst things people are saying about him.

As well as the predictable backlash from his fans, huge sections of the LGBTQ community have also been unimpressed with Richie’s coming out, with clips of the most offensive of Richie’s past stand-up beginning to surface online. Steve had been sympathetic and Eddie had been furious, but now reading it himself for the first time, Richie thinks he agrees with most of it. He may not have written any of his own (sexist, homophobic, _shitty_ ) jokes over the past fifteen years, but he still stood up on a stage in front of thousands of people and said them. Smiled, laughed along, glowed in the applause and got rich from the money of people that would have beat the shit out of him in high school.

And then there are the comments from his former fans, people who hate him for daring to be honest about himself for the first time ever, and aren’t afraid to spew that hatred all over the internet. They’re familiar words, for the most part, nothing he hasn’t heard before, nothing he hasn’t ever thought about himself. He can hear them in the clown’s voice, in Henry Bowers’ voice, in the voices of a dozen other teenage shitheads that cropped up in the power vacuum Bowers left behind. He can hear them in Jacob’s voice and he can hear them in the voice of thirteen-year-old Richie Tozier, young and desperate and soaked with self-loathing.

He tries, just once, to hear them in Eddie’s voice. It’s nothing Eddie’s ever said to him, but he knows Eddie’s voice like he knows the rhythm of his own heartbeat and Voices have always been his superpower.

Still, he can’t quite make it work. None of it sounds right and he thinks Eddie would be mad at him for even trying. It helps, a little, but it does nothing to lift the heavy black sadness that creeps around him like ivy, pinning him to the sofa, unable to eat or sleep or do anything but listen to the oppressive silence of his empty apartment. His empty life.

The Losers group chat pings regularly, but the noise barely draws his attention. He doesn’t read any messages and doesn’t respond. 

Eddie calls him and he ignores it. His mom calls and he ignores it. Beverley calls and he ignores it.

Stan calls, and he eyes the phone mutinously before accepting, switching it immediately to speaker and throwing it onto the carpet.

“S’up Staniel?” His voice is muffled where his face is pressed against couch, and a sharp sigh of annoyance floats out of the phone.

“Richie, why are you ignoring everyone?” he demands sharply, and it forces a reluctant smile out of Richie. No small-talk, no niceties, just _cut the bullshit Richie_. It’s Stan all over.

“I’m not ignoring anyone,” he lies sulkily, the smile dropping away as he wonders how Stan even knows who he’s ignoring, suddenly picturing a group chat of every loser _except_ Richie, where they go to vent and complain and wonder what the fuck to do with him.

“Yes you are, you’re ignoring the group chat and you’re even ignoring Eddie.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Richie snaps, bristling. “Like it means something different if it’s Eddie.”

“Doesn’t it?” Stan asks, his voice gentle now. “Hasn’t it always?” Richie sighs, and flips over, turning his back on the phone. “I spoke to Eddie by the way,” Stan continues, oblivious to Richie’s body language, “about everything. He called me.”

Richie had expected Eddie to come out the same way he had, by dropping it into the group chat like a grenade and then running for cover. When this didn’t happen he realised that Eddie meant to do it individually, to each Loser in turn, and the idea was so terrifying to Richie that he thought it might be the bravest thing Eddie had done so far.

“Okay,” he says moodily. “And?”

“Nothing you want to comment on?” Stan asks. “No opinion to offer?”

“What do you want me to say Stan? I’m proud of him, obviously. It’s hard to do this shit, I know. It was hard for me and I didn’t grow up with his psychotic mother, but it’s very on-brand for Eddie to try and speed-run fixing his life.”

“That’s it?” Stan presses, and Richie ignores him. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am happy! I’m happy for him.”

“No I meant—”

“I know what you meant Stan,” says Richie, sitting up lazily and blinking his stinging eyes. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Doesn’t change — Richie, how doesn’t it change anything? He’s gay!”

“Which doesn’t mean…it’s not like…” Richie rubs his eyes under his glasses, scrapes his hair back from his face. “You can’t just assume that the two gay guys in your friendship group are into each other — that’s homophobic.”

“Richie I am going to fly to LA and _strangle_ you,” Stan says, in a calm, deadly voice. “When we were in Derry, you _told_ me you—”

“Stan I didn’t tell you shit. You made assumptions and I just didn’t correct you.”

“And you’re not correcting me now?”

“You’re not even saying anything!”

Stan is silent for a moment, and Richie’s stomach tightens with nerves.

“Do you want me to?” he says eventually, softly. Richie deflates suddenly, all the anger and panic pouring out of him at once.

“No,” he says. “Don’t. I can’t hear it. I’m…I _know_ okay, I can’t let myself think about it yet.”

“Yet?” says Stan. “So you’ll tell Eddie eventually?”

“ _No_ ,” Richie insists. “I’m not going to tell Eddie anything. I just got him back after half our fucking lives not even remembering each other — I’m not going to do anything to push him away.”

“You wouldn’t…why would you push him away? You don’t think he’d want—”

“Stanley I am _begging_ you to drop it,” he says, his hands clenching into fists, gripping the fabric of his worn out sweatpants until his knuckles hurt. “I can’t let myself hope that…it’s just going to hurt more in the long run.”

“What about your road trip?” says Stanley, sharply switching topics.

Richie had tentatively reminded Eddie of their childhood daydream when he had been talking about wanting to get out of New York for a while, and Eddie had laughed and made a joke about how their teen selves would have killed each other if they were stuck together that long. But the next time Richie had brought it up, Eddie had just sighed wistfully and said, _I wish_ , which felt like a step in the right direction.

Telling Stan about it evidently was not.

“What about it? I haven’t even said anything to Eddie yet, not seriously.”

“Well, spending all that time together, getting to know each other again…”

“Aw, are you secretly a romantic Stanley?” says Richie, his voice sounding bitter even to himself. “I don’t know what kind of Lifetime movie you’re picturing, but I don’t think that’s how it’s gonna go down. I don’t even know if Eddie will agree to go.”

“I think he will,” says Stan pragmatically. “He’s been talking a lot about getting out of New York, and I know he misses you.”

Richie can’t quite identify the squirmy feeling that suddenly makes camp in his stomach at the idea of Eddie missing him, something between butterflies and nerves, and wants to grill Stan for information. _How do you know he misses me? Did he tell you? Does he talk about me? Tell me every word._

Stan would absolutely never let him live that down though, so Richie stays stubbornly silent, and eventually Stan sighs.

“Alright Richie,” he says softly, as close to ‘giving in’ as Stan Uris ever sounds, “I’m not going to push it.”

Richie snorts and Stan laughs.

“Fine, I’m not going to push it _anymore_ ,” he acquiesces. “Just…I love you, okay? We all do. Eddie does. Try and let that be the thing you think about most.”

So Richie tries.

***

As October dwindles away, the online backlash seems to quieten down, and a wave of support starts to take its place. Bev, Bill and Ben — all with active online presences of their own — are vocal in his defence, and it prompts other friends and acquaintances from Richie’s past and present to throw their weight behind him as well. Other people eventually start to come forward with their own stories of coming out later in life, of having hidden for a long time behind masks they were not proud of, and the idea of appearing in public at some point starts to seem less terrifying.

Despite this progress, he had decided in the end not to go to Bev’s party. He was still a little afraid of the press, but had also been wary of derailing the focus of the event, and in the end had contented himself by using his returned access to his Twitter account to publically wish her luck, and the morning after he wakes up to a message from Bev in their private chain.

 **Ms Marsh:** The party went great! Wish you could have been here. Look what you missed out on...

He waits for a second, and the message is followed by a picture of Eddie, frowning self-consciously at the camera but one dimple popping like he’s fighting a smile. He’s wearing tight-fitted jeans and a dark burgundy blazer over a thin grey V-neck so loose Richie can just see the top point of his star tattoo peeking out. His hair has been styled by someone other than him, so it isn’t gelled flat but textured and artfully messy, just falling slightly over his forehead, and he’s sporting a light scruff that he didn’t have in Derry.

He looks ruffled and roughshod and ridiculously handsome; Richie suddenly misses him desperately.

“Have a good weekend?” he says with no preamble as soon as Eddie answers his call. Eddie sighs.

“Have you been on Bev’s Instagram?” he says, and Richie hesitates, wondering whether to snitch on Bev, and wondering what it gives away. In the end his hesitation saves him, and Eddie carries on with no answer. “When she said, _oh there might be a couple of pictures of you_ I didn’t think she meant like thirty.”

He sounds so grumpy. Richie’s already firing up his laptop.

“It’s a nice outfit,” says Richie, which doesn’t quite cover how he feels about it, how much he’d like to peel Eddie out of it.

“Bev helped me pick it out,” Eddie says, brightening suddenly. “Remember I said I hightailed it out of my apartment with next to no clothes? I went shopping with her and she helped me...I don’t know...work out what kind of clothes I actually like. It was fun, she said she needed the distraction. She got this whole new studio for herself and she’s going to launch her own label without that shithead. She was terrified of leaving because he told her no one would believe anything she said and that she’d never get anywhere without him, but then like, four Rogan and Marsh designers and two-thirds of the models all left in protest and are joining Bev. She didn’t want a party really — her publicist put it together — but when so many people took her side she felt a bit more like celebrating.”

“That’s great for her,” he says, scanning the pictures and looking at Bev’s glowing face and easy smile. With her arms wrapped around Ben she looks nothing like the haunted, uneasy Beverley he’d met back in Derry. “Did _you_ have a good time?”

“I didn’t want to go, but she said it was sad that I’d left my wife and quit my job and come out and all I’d done was paperwork in my hotel room. She said I needed to do something fun because I was making Ben sad.”

“You monster.”

“Exactly,” Eddie laughs. “It was okay. It was a lot of like, designers and models and frighteningly gorgeous people. Like a room full of Bev-and-Ben’s, it was very intimidating. But a lot of them were pretty nice. There was this one guy who...anyway...”

Richie’s heart gives a painful lurch.

“A guy who what?”

“No one,” says Eddie, too quickly. “It was nothing.”

“Edward,” says Richie seriously, “if you’re getting lucky and holding out gossip on me—”

Eddie laughs, incredulous.

“I am not _getting lucky_ , don’t be fucking stupid. He was one of Bev’s models, I think he took pity on me, I must have looked so lost. If Bev tells you he was flirting with me—”

“Eddie!”

“—don’t listen to her! He wasn’t!” Eddie insists. “That’s just Bev, she likes to torment me, she thinks it’s funny to try and get me to talk about _boys_. She thinks the guy at the coffee shop I go to is flirting with me.”

“Is he?” asks Richie, a strange mix of uncomfortable jealousy and the ever-present urge to tease Eddie fighting for dominance in his gut.

“ _No_ ,” says Eddie, as though the idea is ridiculous. “He’s just...friendly, I guess. I used to go to the same place every morning before work and I just got used to seeing him, so I always said hi. And then I didn’t go for a while after Derry but then I went in again during my mid-life crisis week,” he says, and Richie laughs. “I ordered a black coffee, which I always order, but he looked at me and, I don’t know...I wasn’t wearing my wedding ring and I haven’t been wearing a suit to work because what are they gonna do at this point? Fire me for breaking the dress code? And he just said, _no, it’s not a black coffee kind of day_ , and made me something else. But then every time I’ve been in since then I always order a black coffee and he always charges me for a black coffee but that’s never what he makes.”

“What does he make?”

“It’s different every time,” says Eddie. “Sometimes it’s gross, like one time it was purple and it had _sprinkles_ on it,” he says, in a tone of voice that suggests he’d found dried flies on top of his drink. “But sometimes it’s good. It’s like a...a joke I guess.”

The jealousy momentarily takes dominance over Richie. Eddie flirting with a random guy at a party is one thing, but someone in his life every day, teasing him and cheering him up and making him smile – someone who isn’t Richie — does sting a little.

It shouldn’t though. Eddie isn’t his to be jealous over, after all, and with some effort he shoves it back down.

“Eddie my love,” he says, “he is absolutely flirting with you. He’s not even being subtle.”

“He’s not flirting with me, why would he be flirting with me? I look like a cartoon of a guy going through a midlife crisis, he probably feels sorry for me.”

“Edward,” he sighs, “I despair, I really do. What does he write on your cup?”

“What?”

“Well, you’re heading to work right, you get your purple monstrosity with sprinkles to go? So what name does he write on the cup?”

“Eddie,” says Eddie. “Just Eddie, like a normal person who gets told someone’s name and uses it and doesn’t make it ridiculous. Why, would it be concrete proof he was flirting if it said _Eddie Spaghetti_?” Eddie’s obviously joking, his voice light and laughing, but this is dangerous territory for Richie to be in right now.

“I reserve the right exclusively,” he says, which is not the whole truth but isn’t quite a lie either. “I don’t want to have to fly to New York to beat up some kid in a coffee shop, that’s not going to do my shaky public image any favours.”

“He’s not a _kid_ ,” says Eddie, in distaste. “He’s our age. It’s _his_ coffee shop.”

“What does he look like?” says Richie, to torment himself. Eddie hums thoughtfully.

“Tall. Nice eyes. A little like Mike, actually,” he says eventually.

Great.

“I wonder if that’s why I liked him before Derry,” Eddie says softly. “Leo, I mean. I don’t usually feel comfortable with people that quickly but I think now maybe he subconsciously reminded me of Mike.”

“Maybe,” says Richie, trying not to think about all the short, doe-eyed guys who have made his heart flutter of the years. “So, are you...I mean you said you like him?”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation, this conversation is going to _kill him_. Eddie with a wife hurt enough, but Eddie who is gay and still doesn’t look at Richie that way, Eddie dating another man — Richie might never recover. Then Eddie laughs.

“Rich, even if he _was_ flirting with me — which he isn’t — that is the furthest thing from my mind. I literally don’t have the emotional capacity to even look at that right now. Besides,” he says, “I don’t think he’s my type either.”

“Do you...” Richie starts hesitantly. “Do you _have_ a type?”

“Richard,” says Eddie sternly. “Do not turn into Bev. I do not want to gossip about dating or guys or _anything_. I can’t think about dating someone else without feeling — I dunno, doesn’t matter.”

“Eduardo we’re not going back to you refusing to talk about your life. Without feeling...?”

“Like I’m too old to be starting all over again, you know? Like I’m supposed to have figured this all out in my twenties.”

“That’s bullshit Eds, it doesn’t work out that way for everyone, it’s not that simple. Especially when you were raised in the eighties in small town Maine and were haunted by a _literal fear monster_ as a child.”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughs a little, “I guess that’s a good point. I just feel like I’m rushing to catch up. I _do_ like Leo, a bit, but probably not like _that_. I don’t think I’m really ready to think of anyone like that yet, but what if I’m never ready? Or what if I’m ready a bit later and the universe is like, _no, tough shit, we gave you a cute guy in a coffee shop and you said no, so now you’re alone forever_?”

Eddie puts on a deep, authoritative voice for the universe, the kind of voice they might have pretended came out of Bill when they were kids.

“That is not going to happen Eddie,” Richie says, and he’s a heartbeat away from saying something fucking stupid, like _if both of us are still single in a year, six months, this time next week..._

He doesn’t, but it’s a close call.

“You don’t know that,” Eddie says.

“I do, and I’ll tell you why. You, Edward Spagedward Kaspbrak, are a fucking catch.”

“You’re funny,” says Eddie, deadpan.

“I’m deadly fucking serious. You’re smart and funny and _cute_ and yeah, fine, a bit weird but you are my best friend and my favourite person in this entire turtle-vomit galaxy. But you know what else you are?”

“What?”

“Tough. As. Fuck. So later, when you’re feeling better and maybe feeling like you are ready, the universe wouldn’t have the balls to tell you that you missed your shot.”

Eddie is silent for just long enough to make Richie start panicking, and then he sniffs loudly.

“Thanks Rich,” he says thickly. “That’s oddly inspiring.”

“Yeah well, when I inevitably fail as a stand-up because it turns out I can’t actually write my own jokes, maybe I’ll take up motivational speaking.”

“You _can_ write your own jokes, you make me laugh all the time,” he says, turning Richie’s heart into a toasted marshmallow, warm and sweet and melty.

He’s been trying to write, with varying degrees of success, ever since Steve had suggested the idea of posting short videos online. The idea of saying anything honest on a stage in front of an audience is still vomit-inducing, but he thinks he could handle posting the videos online as long as he didn’t spend too much time stuck in the comments afterwards, and recording himself on his phone would be easy enough. He can just pretend he’s talking to Eddie.

The fact that he’s mostly using Eddie as a test audience is part of the problem though. When the suggestion of a ghost writer had come along some fifteen years ago – with a lot of ego-stroking about Richie’s stage presence and charisma to soften the blow of being told that his sense of humour was too weird and too dark for a mainstream audience – Richie had been so desperate for what had finally seemed like his shot at stardom that he had never really considered saying no. The fact that the deal came with a persona he could effectively hide everything about himself he still wasn’t ready to look at in the light was just a bonus. He never really stopped to consider the downsides, the fact that his own sense of humour might end up crushed under the weight of someone else’s, after years of telling jokes that even _he_ didn’t think were funny. It’s been an occasionally painful process to dig it all up again, but Eddie has been with him the whole way, work-shopping all of his new material like he had with the coming out video, swapping ideas and lines and bits in the back-and-forth they always had as kids, that they’ve slipped back into so easily as adults.

The question is whether any of this would be funny to an audience outside of seven traumatised losers from Derry, and it’s not as though Eddie can be an objective judge of that either.

But it’s been so much fun, made him remember why he wanted to write comedy in the first place, that it’s been easy to push his concerns about how useable any of it will be to the side. Eddie laughs at pretty much everything, but isn’t afraid to tell Richie when a joke doesn’t land, and he’s so funny himself — smart and sharp and witty — that his criticisms always come with suggestions and improvements until Richie is the one choking back laughter.

“You are my number one fan Eddie Spaghetti,” he says, ignoring Eddie blowing raspberries down the phone. “Just because _you_ think I’m hilarious and witty doesn’t mean anybody else will.”

“Maybe that doesn’t matter right now though,” says Eddie. “I mean, Steve said there was no rush, and maybe it’s more important that you just...have fun. If all of this ends up in the garbage at least we made each other laugh. It’s okay to just think about what _you_ think is funny before you work on anything else, be patient with yourself.”

“You sound like my therapist,” says Richie, and Eddie scoffs.

“You don’t have a therapist.”

“I have you,” he says, and Eddie hums softly.

Several times a week Richie talks to Stan, and at some point during every conversation Stan manages to find time to poke Richie about going to therapy. He talks about how much it’s helping him, how much he knows it’s doing for Eddie, how much he thinks Richie would benefit, but the idea of sitting down with a professional and being told that actually, sorry, you’ve got no excuses, all your problems are just because of _you_ is not appealing to Richie. It sounds scarier than anything he’s done so far, including clown-fighting.

Eddie had mentioned it once too — the idea of Richie seeing a therapist — but Richie had shut the conversation down straight away. Telling Stan to _fuck off and stop being a nag Bird-Face_ is one thing, but Eddie Kaspbrak levelling him with those big sad eyes and saying _please Richie_...who fucking knows what Richie would agree to then?

But Eddie had let the conversation drop, had not used The Eyes against him and had never directly mentioned it again, but in an uncharacteristic show of subtlety that surprised Richie, had brought up his own therapy sessions more often than Richie suspected he was really comfortable with, using it as an excuse to pepper their conversations with little nuggets of wisdom and kindness and self-care, as though he could filter the experience through himself down to Richie.

The idea of anyone caring enough about Richie not only to want him to get help, but to think about the best way to get that help to him, is enough to make him a little teary if he thinks too much about it.

“You have me,” Eddie agrees easily, melting Richie a little further.

“So, what are your big Halloween plans Spagheds?” says Richie briskly, derailing the conversation for his own sanity, before Eddie says something devastatingly sweet to him. “Going to go trick-or-treating in your best Richie Tozier costume?”

“Oh God!” Eddie bursts out laughing. “I forgot we did that!”

Richie smiles, letting the memory take him over for a moment. It had been his own stupid idea, and he had wanted it so much he’d almost chickened out of asking Eddie in case he laughed and refused and made fun of Richie. But he’d gathered his courage and Eddie _had_ laughed, but in delighted agreement. An old Hawaiian shirt of Richie’s that no longer fit, Eddie’s own jeans and most beat-up sneakers. A borrowed polo shirt and fanny pack, and a pair of running shorts bought especially for the occasion by an indulgent Maggie Tozier because Eddie’s would have been short to the point of obscene on Richie. They had borrowed Went’s pomade to force Richie’s hair into a neat parting, and to bring out the curls in Eddie’s, and although Eddie’s cast had come off his arm weeks before, the finishing touch had been a close approximation carefully constructed out of paper mache, complete with LOS(V)ER graffiti.

Eddie had borrowed Richie’s glasses and then held tightly to Richie’s hand to guide him carefully down the stairs, to soak up the delighted laughter of Richie’s parents, while Maggie took photographs of them and warned Richie to take his glasses back before biking to Ben’s for Halloween movie night.

The other Losers had laughed too, as Richie had hammed up his act, ranting about germs and staph infections and grey water, and Eddie had played along the whole way, cracking jokes about his own mother and grinning when the other losers beeped him. Richie had revelled in their laughter, and thought _as long as they’re laughing, I’m safe_. As long as his friends were laughing then the whole thing was _funny_ , a joke, just a joke. It wasn’t because he had wondered idly what Eddie would look like in his clothes, or because they would have to spend the night pretty much joined at the hip for the joke to work or because it was, sort of, if you squinted (or had let your best friend borrow your glasses) kind of a couple’s costume.

And Richie knew he was in trouble, had known it while he was carving their initials into the wood of the bridge and knew it weeks later when he gave up his half-hearted attempt at combing his hair into submission in the hope that Eddie would take over. When he did, face close to Richie’s, pinched in concentration, scraping his fingernails against Richie’s scalp, Richie had been hit with the realisation _I could kiss him. I’d only have to lean forwards the tiniest bit and we’d be kissing and sometimes he looks at me like maybe he’d let me, maybe he wants me to._

_Maybe..._

But maybe hadn’t been enough, just like now, twenty-seven years later, maybe still isn’t enough. So Richie had not kissed Eddie, and had instead spent the night making fun of his best friend, and falling more and more in love as his best friend had made fun of him too. He had felt safe because his friends were laughing, and as long as they were laughing, they were looking at the joke, and not looking too closely at all the reasons he was making it. 

“Oh man,” says Eddie, breaking into Richie’s wistful reverie. “I’m going to ask Ben if he remembers that. I guess it’s not really the same if you aren’t here wearing a polo shirt and a fanny pack as well.”

“Next year Eds,” he says. “We can put it in our Richie-and-Eddie-dig-up-their-teen-years master plan. Loser Halloween 2.0.”

“Is that to go with our disastrous road trip where I drown you in a revolting motel pool after months of _your mom_ jokes?”

“Exactly,” says Richie gleefully. It’s the first time Eddie’s been the one to bring up the road trip. “That’s the dream.”

It’s all he thinks about now. Where they’d go. Where they’d stay. Things they could do along the way. He looks up the stupidest tourist traps, the most ridiculous roadside attractions and all the five-star rated motels along his theoretical route. They could visit Stan and Patty. They could drop in on Mike, and Went and Maggie are also in Florida. He’d be spending Christmas with Eddie.

There are downsides, obviously. Risks. He’s not Eddie, but he’s not stupid either. He knows it’ll be hard to spend this much time with Eddie and not say anything, or not have his feelings become obvious. Sharing motel rooms, long stretches of road with only each other for company — if he’s shaking with desire every time he sees Eddie’s eyes crinkle with laughter over face time then who knows what’s going to happen with months of time pressed close together.

That’s if Eddie even agrees to go, but going from his instant dismissal of the idea to Eddie being the one to bring it up in conversation, however jokingly, seems like progress.

He’s just...nervous. The stakes seem so high now. This chance to have Eddie all to himself for this amount of time, to play pretend that Eddie is _his_ for just a little bit longer, it’s not going to come around again, because eventually Eddie will pick a direction and guide himself out of the crossroads his life is currently stuck at.

Which leaves Richie wanting something so badly he can barely stand to ask for it, all over again. 

***

The middle of November brings the first ever video call featuring all seven Losers, plus honorary eighth member of the club Patty Blum-Uris. She and Stan are curled up together in a little love-seat, looking tanned and happy, and Richie melts a little for them, even as he needles Stan for calling her _babylove_ for Christ’s sake.

Bill is in his study — he and Richie have spent a lot of time there over the past few weeks alternately encouraging and commiserating with each other over how crappy writing is as a career choice — and Mike is cross-legged on a bed in the Airbnb he and his internet cult have rented down in Florida. He looks years younger, bright and attentive and like a literal weight has been lifted from his shoulders, as he tells them enthusiastically about the friends he’s made, the things he’s learned, the places he can’t wait to see next.

Bev, Ben and Eddie are sitting squashed together on one side of the table in Ben’s kitchen. There are two half-full glasses of red wine in front of them — Eddie and Bev are both giggly and pink-cheeked and Ben keeps laughing and rolling his eyes at them indulgently.

“I went into the office today to hand over my security pass and the last of my paperwork,” Eddie explains. “I’m celebrating.”

Bev whoops and wraps her arms clumsily around his shoulders; he leans his cheek against her hair with a smile and Richie _aches_ for him.

“What’s next Eddie?” asks Bill, giving him a paternal smile.

“Come. To. Florida,” says Mike sternly, as though they’ve had this discussion several times already. Eddie laughs.

“Maybe I will,” he says thoughtfully, and then drains his glass, setting it down on the table with a decisive thud. “Maybe I fucking will.”

Mike laughs appreciatively, and the conversation moves on, but Richie continues to watch Eddie. He looks sleepy, but not depressed and defeated like he had done just a few weeks ago. His button-up shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves pulled back over his ropey forearms and his hair is ruffled and untidy — he looks loose and relaxed and a million miles away from the tense, unhappy man Richie had met again in Derry. He’s pressed up between his friends and smiling like Richie had thought he might never smile again. He watches Ben wrap him up in his massive arms and pretend to wrestle him, while Eddie wriggles and protests and laughs, and Richie thinks, _it’s time_.

He looks happy. He looks alive.

When they eventually end the call, Richie opens a new tab to start looking at flights to New York and thinks, _he looks ready for a fucking adventure._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me when I was planning W&W: This fic is gonna be fun. It's gonna be full of fluff and laughs and the losers having some good times.
> 
> Me now, realising the first 4 chapters have been about Eddie hating his life, Richie's depression and both of their self-esteem issues: Great. Good job. Mission accomplished, dingus.
> 
> Well. This was supposed to be a short chapter but I have no self control and man can these losers TALK.
> 
> The next chapter is shaping up to be kind of a monster so I might end up splitting it into two if it gets really out of hand, but good news! The next chapter is actually a bit happy!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	5. Anytime You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All our problems will wait for us Richie. Mine will still be here, yours will still be in LA. What difference will a few months make?”
> 
> “Probably no difference Eds,” he concedes with a sigh. “Except you’ll have had a kickass few months with your very best friend.”
> 
> He doesn’t actually expect this to work; he’s out of ideas, going for broke, he’s run out of bullets and he’s throwing his empty gun at a bad guy twice his size. But then a strangely fond expression softens Eddie’s face, and Richie grins. 
> 
> “You’re wavering aren’t you? Eds? Eddie? My love? Light of my life? My moon and stars, my one and only? You are wavering, I can tell by your eyebrows.”
> 
> “Fuck off Richie!” Eddie laughs, clamping both hands down on his forehead to cover them. He stares at Richie for a second, a smile still ghosting his lips, and then lowers his hands. Nods.
> 
> “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah okay. It sounds like fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here I am again with content warnings after I promised a happy chapter. It's just one scene here though (CW for homophobia, internalised homophobia and one use of the 'f' slur) - Richie has another bad dream - but if you prefer skip everything in italics after they fall asleep and it won't make much difference to the plot.
> 
> Haha...plot. What even is that?
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

_And if you stay I would even wait all night,_

_Or until my heart explodes._

_How long?_

_'Til we find our way in the dark and out of harm._

_You can run away with me_

_Anytime you want._

_Summertime - My Chemical Romance_

In a fun change from his flight out of Derry, Richie spends the entire journey to New York on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

It had been fun to plan the surprise with Bev — what restaurant she would ask Eddie to meet her and Ben in, imagining the look on Eddie’s face when it was Richie waiting for him at the table instead — but now that uncertainty is making him second guess everything.

What if this is a terrible idea? What if Eddie doesn’t want to see him at all, much less spend months on the road getting lost and visiting tacky attractions with him? What if he’s already leaving New York for Florida to see Mike? What if he’s gone back to his wife?

The last two options don’t seem likely — at least not without Richie having heard about it — but the closer he gets to New York, the tighter his mind winds in a spiral of panic.

He pulls out his phone to distract himself, scrolling first through the pictures from Derry (which always calm him down a little) and then through the pictures of Bev’s party from her Instagram.

Eddie is focal in about ten of them; posing self-consciously at the start of the night, but getting smiley and loose as the evening wears on, arms wrapped around Bev and Ben, Stan and Patty. Richie thinks he might be able to draw these pictures from memory by now.

He’s focused more now on the pictures that have Eddie in the background — pictures of Bev and Ben where he’s propping up the bar behind them, pictures of assorted models and designers where he’s seated at a table just off-centre. In every one he’s joined by a tall guy in a dark suit, with blonde curls and razor sharp cheekbones — intent in conversation, smiling and laughing.

_There was this one guy who…_

He locks his phone. Unlocks and looks again. Turns his phone off. Turns it back on. Considers deleting Instagram entirely. Wonders how obvious it would be to immediately interrogate Bev as soon as he spots her in the airport as to who Eddie’s new friend is. Debates the merits of just throwing his phone into the East River as soon as he lands, possibly himself along with it.

By the time he’s sliding into Bev’s car at LaGuardia he’s on the verge of peeling his own skin off, and Bev isn’t helping. She hugged him enthusiastically at the airport but after rebuffing all of Richie’s attempts at teasing and small-talk, they sit in a somehow pointed silence until Bev pulls up outside the low-key Italian place in Bushwick where he’s due to meet Eddie in fifteen minutes. The sun’s starting to set, the low hanging clouds just dusted with pink, and though the air has a definite chill the city is still busy and buzzing. Bev kills the ignition and stares at the steering wheel.

“So…” Richie shifts awkwardly in the passenger seat, wondering whether he’s already been dismissed. Then, because his mouth works before his brain ever gets a chance to intervene, he says, “Who is this guy at your party who was hitting on Eddie?”

Shit.

Bev closes her eyes, and takes a deep, slow breath, like she’s had a very hard day with a demanding toddler and is close to the end of her patience. She turns to him, the expression of stern disapproval on her face reminding him unnervingly of Stan.

“Richie,” she says seriously, “I am asking you this with all the love in the world — what the fuck are you doing?”

“What?” He stares at her blankly, and she frowns and sighs.

“His name is Cary,” she says finally. “He’s one of the models that left Rogan and Marsh when I did. Eddie says Cary was just being polite to him, but I know he was flirting because I asked him.”

“And?” Richie demands, too invested now to worry about being obvious.

“And what?” Bev raises her eyebrows, but takes pity on him. “Nothing happened, nothing’s happened since. They swapped numbers and I know they’ve talked a bit, but they’re just friends.”

Richie deflates a little in relief, and Bev’s expression shifts into gentle concern.

“Really Richie, what the fuck _are_ you doing? Is this road trip about…” she hesitates, and seems to steel herself. “Look — I don’t know anything you haven’t told me. But you talk about him more than you talk about anything else, and I…I see how you look at him, how you’ve always looked at him, and I’m just…worried.”

So Bev knows, which is not surprising, and Richie finds is not particularly frightening either. After all, what’s the point of any of these things he’s doing to change his life if he can’t at least try and be open with the people who love him? A little bit of honesty until he’s ready for the full thing. Not the whole truth, but a truth nonetheless.

Time to put all that free therapy Eddie’s been trickling down to him to use.

“Okay,” he says, eyes fixed on his jittery knees, “cards on the table — I had kind of a little crush on him when we were kids.”

He risks glancing up at Bev, and rolls his eyes at her deadpan expression — she is _really_ channelling Stanley today.

“Fine,” he admits, “I had a huge crush on him when we were kids. But then I forgot about him, and we all met again and I didn’t really have a chance to work out what happened to that crush before he literally died in front of me and was resurrected by a magic turtle god, so I don’t really have any answers about that yet.”

His hands clench into fists, and he’s tempted to shove them in the pockets of his jacket, but Bev grabs one over the centre console and squeezes gently.

“This trip isn’t about that though,” he says, honestly. “I just…I miss him, all the time. And I think he misses me too—”

“He definitely does.”

“He wants out of New York — and it’s killing me being in LA right now — and we might not have this much free time ever again. I think we can make a rough time a little easier for each other, that’s all. I swear I’ve got no other agenda than that—”

“Hey Richie, no…” she interrupts softly, tugging on his hand until he turns to look at her. “I didn’t mean that, I never thought you had an _agenda_. I just don’t want to see either of you get hurt, that’s all. I love you two idiots, you know.”

“I know. And hey, maybe we’ll get so sick of each other, we’ll never be able to be in the same room again,” he says, and smiles weakly. “Look, I’m not going to say I know exactly what I’m doing because I don’t, but all I want is to get to know my best friend again.”

She stares at him searchingly, and then nods.

“Okay,” she says, “I trust you not to do anything stupid.”

The tension finally breaks, and he squeezes her hand back as he laughs.

“I don’t hear that a lot.”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t say it a lot,” she says. “But I do. When it comes to Eddie, I trust you.”

She lets go of his hand and pulls out her phone, mischievous grin back in place. 

“Come on then, let’s get your cunning plan under way.”

The restaurant is understated but nice — rustic wooden flooring, lighting from low-hanging orange lampshades, artistic photographs of pizza, pasta and fresh produce decorating the terracotta walls. A server leads him past rows of open tables to a cluster of more intimate booths — table thoughtfully booked by Bev — near big patio doors that open onto a terrace full of chairs, tables and tubs of overgrown herbs. By now the sky is a deep, smoky orange that seems to compliment the restaurant, and Richie slides his suitcase under the table and tries to breathe around his nerves.

So as far as Richie knows, Eddie hasn’t gone back to Myra, isn’t planning on leaving for Florida any day now, and isn’t sharing his hotel room with his brand new, blonde-haired, fantastically-cheek-boned model boyfriend. Which are all positives, but don’t do much to answer the question of whether Eddie will be pleased to see him, or whether he’ll immediately—

“Richie?”

Richie drops his locked phone onto the polished wooden table, and looks up to see Eddie standing in front of him with the server, a look of blank shock on his face.

He looks devastatingly cute; his hair glossy and wavy, in a pale yellow t-shirt and cuffed blue jeans. God, if he’s going to yell at Richie in public for being an impulsive dipshit, he could at least have the decency to look ugly doing it.

Richie swallows painfully, wishing Eddie’s uncharacteristic lack of expression would crack, and stumbles to his feet, bumping into the table on the way.

“Surprise…” he says weakly, and the server tactfully chooses this moment to slide two menus onto the table and disappear. Richie is two seconds away from throwing himself off the tasteful herb garden terrace, when a smile finally breaks over Eddie’s face like sunshine.

“Did you really need a hug?” says Eddie, with an incredulous little laugh.

“I really needed a fucking hug,” Richie says, wilting a little in relief when Eddie doesn’t hesitate, reaching up on his tiptoes to throw his wiry arms around Richie’s shoulders, squeezing until he’s breathless. Richie hugs him back, burying his face into Eddie’s soft hair and swallowing painfully until he’s sure he’s got the tears under control. Eddie hugs the same way he does a lot of things — throws himself into it with a lack of thought that might surprise people who don’t know Eddie Kaspbrak the way the Losers do. It’s the same way he threw a fence post at a monster, the same way he jumped into the river to get a better shot at throwing a rock at a bully.

He hugs like he means it.

As Eddie pulls away and gazes up at Richie’s face searchingly, Richie wonders fleetingly if Eddie would kiss him like that — like he means it — if Richie were just brave enough to ask.

“I take it Bev was in on this little scheme?” Eddie says, as they slide into opposite sides of the booth and Eddie pulls out his phone. He laughs and turns it towards Richie, where he can see Eddie’s message from Bev.

 **Bev:** Did you like your surprise?

“Did you?” Richie asks, forcing a grin that doesn’t nothing to hide the waver of uncertainty in his voice.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Eddie insistently. “But what are you doing here? You didn’t—” he stops suddenly, narrowing his eyes at Richie in suspicion. “Does your shirt have pineapples on it?”

“Sure does,” says Richie, smoothing it down. “It’s one of my more understated pieces.”

“You hate pineapple,” says Eddie, and then frowns. “Wait? _Do_ you still hate pineapple?”

“I do still hate pineapple,” he agrees, “but I don’t make a habit of _licking_ my shirts.”

“Really?” Eddie arches one eyebrow, the way that used to make Richie die of envy when they were kids because he could do it so perfectly. “You seem like the type.”

From there, it’s easy to slip into their natural back-and-forth, and as the minutes turn into hours Richie feels his nerves melting away. Eddie snaps back at all his teasing (“I do not look like a nerd, _Bev_ chose these jeans”) and argues with any ideas he thinks are stupid (“I don’t care what Mike thinks would be fun, I’m not going backpacking”) but by the time they’re finishing an after-dinner coffee, Richie’s pretty sure he’s spent the majority of the last two and a half hours crying with laughter. He’s just starting to feel fully relaxed, when a voice pipes up from somewhere behind Eddie—

“Hey! Is that Richie Tozier?”

Eddie whips round, and Richie follows his gaze to where a group of half a dozen people are pointing and craning to get a look at him. Instinctively he hunches his shoulders and sinks a little lower in his seat, and he can feel the blood rushing to his face, blind panic making it hard to think straight, feeling suddenly like every tasteful, low-hanging light in the place has been trained on him.

Then Eddie turns back to him, and presses a heavy bunch of keys into his shaking hand.

“Go out that way,” he says, nodding towards the terrace herb garden at the back of the restaurant, away from the queue and the crowd. “I’m parked round the corner, the big fuck-off Escalade in front of the book shop. I’ll meet you there in a minute.”

He’s gone before Richie can think of a response, so he grabs his suitcase and his jacket and heads out through the restaurant’s small garden and onto the street. It’s dark now, but Eddie’s car is twice the size of every other vehicle in sight, and Richie throws his suitcase into the trunk before sliding into the passenger seat and trying desperately not to spiral. It was bound to happen, New York is a big city and he’d been prepared to be spotted eventually, but not on his very first night, not before he even knows whether Eddie’s going to laugh in his face and march him straight back onto a plane.

He tries the breathing technique for panic attacks that Eddie uses — breath in for a count of 4, hold for 7, breathe out slowly for 8 — and by the time Eddie’s climbing into the driver’s seat Richie’s stopped shaking and the buzzing in his ears has faded. Eddie doesn’t talk until Richie looks over at him.

“Okay?” he says gently. Richie nods.

“I’m fine Eds,” he says, and Eddie scoffs.

“I defend your honour to a bunch of students and you can’t even be bothered to use my actual name,” he says, but he smiles as he takes his keys from Richie’s outstretched hand. He starts the ignition, and then turns back to Richie.

“Where to?” he says lightly. “Have you booked a hotel, or are you staying with Ben and Bev?”

Crap. This was a definitely a mistake. There’s no way Eddie’s going to let him just—

“I see how it is,” Eddie says, evidently reading the truth in Richie’s panicked expression. “You show up, unannounced, expecting to just stay in my hotel room—”

“Sorry,” says Richie hurriedly, hearing it in Eddie’s voice, hearing how it sounds, wondering what Eddie thinks he’s implying. He can feel the panic rising again, but Eddie presses a grounding hand to his shoulder and squeezes.

“Hey, I’m kidding. I’m obviously kidding, of course you can stay with me,” he says warmly, and Richie relaxes a little.

It takes less than twenty minutes to get to Eddie’s hotel, and it’s late enough now that the lobby is deserted. The abandoned reception desk is lit by a flickering lamp and a small collection of mismatched chairs litter the scratched wooden floor. Eddie leads them confidently towards an elevator and as the door closes behind them, Richie takes in the smudged glass of the mirror and the scuff marks on the walls.

“This isn’t the kind of place I pictured you in,” he says, as he follows Eddie down a gloomy corridor. The place isn’t a dive exactly, but the faded carpet bears evidence of years of footsteps and the peeling floral wallpaper has definitely seen better days.

“I know,” says Eddie, with a grimace. “But I thought it would be safer — Myra’s less likely to look for me in a place like this.”

There’s a lot to unpack in that sentence, but it’s not the kind of conversation Richie wants to have right now; he’d happily never think about Eddie’s wife (soon-to-be ex-wife, he reminds himself giddily) ever again. So he just hums in acknowledgement and drags his suitcase through the door at the end of the corridor that Eddie unlocks.

The room is a pleasant surprise compared with the rest of the hotel. It’s bigger than Richie would have expected, and nicely decorated in a muted, beige kind of way. It’s immaculately tidy; as he shoves his suitcase into a closet all of Eddie’s clothes are hanging in it neatly, and his laptop, some folders and the ugly shepherdess figurine turn the dressing table into an organised makeshift desk. The air smells like cleaning products; polish and air-freshener and a hint of bleach. The bedspread is suspiciously tasteful and, when Richie covertly runs his fingers over the coverlet, very soft. He turns to Eddie.

“You totally bought your own sheets, didn’t you?”

“Listen,” he starts defensively, his cheeks flushing as he toes off his shoes in the corner, “do you know how many times hotels wash their sheets?”

“No? Does anyone actually have that information?”

“Probably not!” Eddie throws himself dramatically onto the squashed little sofa. “Which means the answer could be never! And if I woke up covered in bedbug bites I’d have to throw myself out the window.”

“A calm and measured Kaspbrak response to a crisis,” Richie says, as he sits down next to Eddie, who turns to face him with his back against the arm of the sofa.

“Fuck off Richie,” he grins, poking Richie in the thigh with his toes.

Cute.

Eddie leaves his feet pressed against the side of Richie’s leg, and Richie tries to listen to what Eddie’s saying, tries not to focus on the warmth blossoming from that one point of contact. Eddie curls his toes up. His socks are purple.

Cute cute cute.

“So…?” Eddie demands, poking again when it becomes apparent Richie isn’t listening.

“Sorry what? I was admiring your little baby socks Eds.”

“Dick,” Eddie says carelessly. “Come on, you didn’t fly three-thousand miles for a hug, what gives?” He raises his eyebrows at Richie meaningfully and Richie sighs and shrugs.

“I…” Richie hesitates, the truth burning a hole in the tip of his tongue. He’s not sure what’s keeping it there, when Eddie was definitely pleased to see him, let Richie stay in his room and even gave him his much needed hug. He hedges. “I came to see you.”

“Richie…” Eddie’s expression turns soft, and he stops digging his sharp little feet into Richie’s thigh. “I’m _fine_. I really am. The divorce is still going to take a while, but I’ve finished work now, and Bev and Ben are babysitting me. Like I said, I might get out of New York for a bit—”

“Actually that’s…” Richie fiddles with his glasses, fights the urge to grab hold of Eddie’s feet like he’s going to try and make an escape. “That is what I came to talk to you about.”

Eddie scowls.

“I’m deadly fucking serious Richie, I am _not_ going backpacking.”

“Eddie, how long have I known you — two-decade long amnesia in the middle notwithstanding? I would not expect you to go backpacking. I do...I did have...an idea though?” He floats it hesitantly, half expecting Eddie to shut him down before he hears it, but he just taps his feet against Richie’s leg. He takes this as an invitation to continue. “You want to get out of New York, and right now I hate every inch of LA, and we’ve talked a lot recently about how when we were kids, we wanted to take a road trip together—”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up — whether in interest or alarm Richie can’t tell — but he doesn’t immediately start shouting. Promising.

“I thought, you know, I cancelled the rest of my tour and you’re an unemployed bum now anyway—” He grins as Eddie kicks him gently. “We could _actually_ cross it off our high school loser bucket list.”

Eddie is quiet for a long time, long enough that it almost becomes awkward, and Richie is ready to grab his suitcase and bolt for the elevator, when Eddie sighs.

“Well it’s a better idea than backpacking.”

Richie grins. Eddie is a stubborn little shit and he never has any trouble saying no to Richie; if he’s conceding a little it means he _wants_ to be talked into it.

But then Eddie shakes his head.

“You do realise we are not actually eighteen anymore?”

“I know,” says Richie, trying not to sound too desperate. “I know. But...”

“But?”

“We never got to be eighteen together did we? Never took our kickass road trip, never went to college together, or got our first shithole apartment together or any of the other things we wanted to do.”

“This is New York Richie, we can get a shithole apartment right here if you want.”

Richie rolls his eyes.

“You know what I mean. This is one thing we can do — and better than we could’ve done at eighteen, because now we have money and we won’t have to live off of Twizzlers and sleep in the car.” Eddie is still eyeing him doubtfully, and Richie twists in his seat so he’s facing Eddie head on and thinks _fuck it._ He grabs both of Eddie’s feet in his hands. “Okay listen, I will bring out the big guns if I have to.”

“Oh?”

“But you have to promise to control yourself okay? Keep your excitement to a manageable level. No squealing and strictly no sex noises.”

“Shut up!” Eddie pulls his feet out of Richie’s grip to kick him again, but he’s laughing, light and giddy, calling an answering laugh from Richie’s chest.

“Eddie listen, listen...” says Richie, trying to talk through rising giggles. “Eddie, I made an _itinerary_.”

“No you didn’t you lying fuck,” says Eddie, grinning widely.

“I did,” he says, crossing his heart. “I mapped a route, I researched fun tourist traps _and_ I made a list of all the motels on the way that have five-star hygiene ratings. Eddie, it’s all in a _folder_.”

That does seem to get his attention, the massive nerd, and his face goes thoughtful for a second, and then he levels a curious look at Richie.

“On the way _where_?” He says. “Where are we even going?”

“LA,” says Richie. “I figure, we go back to LA the southern way — stop in Florida to see Mike, maybe drop in and give Stan a lovely surprise—” he says, grinning as Eddie snorts with laughter.

“A _lovely_ surprise…” he mutters, but Richie powers on.

“Then stop at my place for a little while to recover, and then go back to New York the northern way. Then you’re home again, ready to...to decide what you want to do next.”

Eddie stares at him thoughtfully for a minute, then—

“This is a gap year,” he says. “That’s what you’re suggesting right?”

“Well I don’t think it’s gonna take a _year_ ,” says Richie. “Plus a real gap year would definitely involve backpacking.”

“No but...” he hesitates, his mouth twisting with uncertainty. “But a gap year is what you do when you’re a kid who has no idea what to do next, right? You do it to put off deciding whether to go to college or get a job or whatever? And that’s what we’d be doing isn’t it? Just putting off dealing with our problems for a few months?”

“I mean, yeah, I guess so, but—”

“All our problems will wait for us Richie. Mine will still be here, yours will still be in LA. What difference will a few months make?”

“Probably no difference Eds,” he concedes with a sigh. “Except you’ll have had a kickass few months with your very best friend.”

He doesn’t actually expect this to work; he’s out of ideas, going for broke, he’s run out of bullets and he’s throwing his empty gun at a bad guy twice his size. But then a strangely fond expression softens Eddie’s face, and Richie grins.

“You’re wavering aren’t you? Eds? Eddie? My love? Light of my life? My moon and stars, my one and only? You _are_ wavering, I can tell by your eyebrows.”

“Fuck off Richie!” Eddie laughs, clamping both hands down on his forehead to cover them. He stares at Richie for a second, a smile still ghosting his lips, and then lowers his hands. Nods.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah okay. It sounds like fun.”

When Richie leans over to wrestle a squawking Eddie into a clumsy hug, he takes a minute to let the tidal wave of sudden emotion crash through him until it’s more manageable; joy and excitement definitely, but more than that is overwhelming relief, the thought of the immediate future enticing rather than terrifying. For the first time in months, Richie truly feels safe.

Eddie heads into the bathroom shortly after that to get to work on his four-hour bedtime hygiene routine, and Richie takes the opportunity to have a minor nervous breakdown about the sleeping arrangements. The sofa is small enough that even Eddie wouldn’t be able to sleep on it comfortably, and between it, the bed and the dressing table there isn’t a lot of available floor-space to work with. Which leaves the bed, which is bigger than the one they shared in the Derry Townhouse, but that was back before they’d both come out, back before Eddie left his wife, back when Richie was so afraid that Eddie was going to disappear in front of him, he didn’t have much mental space left to worry about waking up pressed against his best friend.

Eddie eventually emerges from the bathroom, eyeing Richie critically while he dithers in the middle of the room.

“Do you want me to…I can go and get my own room?” he says hesitantly. 

“You can try if you want,” Eddie says, sliding into the bed and pulling the covers up to his chin, the way Richie’s seen him do a hundred times over a tiny phone screen. “You’ll probably be waiting all night though. We can just share Rich, figure out the rest in the morning. Besides,” he says, “I owe you a night in my bed anyway.”

“You—what?” Richie chokes, his brain short-circuiting. Eddie snuffles a childish laugh.

“I _meant_ , because you let me share with you at the Townhouse in Derry,” he says innocently, although he gives Richie a wily sort of look as he snuggles down under the covers. Little shit.

Then his expression turns stern.

“Go brush your teeth,” he orders, “or you can sleep on the balcony.”

Richie does has he’s told, digging toiletries and sleep clothes out of his suitcase before heading into the bathroom. He brushes his teeth, splashes his face with cold water and changes into sweatpants and a faded old cartoon t-shirt, and then sits down on the edge of the bath, presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

So far, so according-to-plan; Eddie even agreed to Richie’s — objectively kind of ridiculous — midlife crisis road trip idea. But getting a laugh out of Eddie still feels like a prize and meeting his gaze makes Richie’s stomach clench and teasing him and being teased back makes him feel like there’s static in his veins — all of which could end up being a problem.

He stands up, tries to pull himself together, and heads back out into the room, trying not to focus on the fact that Eddie Kaspbrak is waiting for him in bed. He flicks the light switch as he leaves the bathroom, plunging the room into darkness and finds his way across the room in the gloomy half-light seeping under the curtains. He slides into bed and turns to face Eddie, almost nose to nose.

“Thanks,” he whispers, even though there’s no need to.

“What for?” Eddie says, also in a whisper.

“Letting me stay,” he says, “agreeing to come with me.”

_Still wanting me around, still wanting to be my friend, not being sick of me despite everything. For coming back._

“I usually do what you want,” he says, with a little smile, “in the end.”

Eddie falls asleep pretty soon after that, the steady sound of his breathing and the rise-and-fall rhythm of his chest lulling Richie into drowsiness. Just before he slips into unconsciousness, a last thought dances across his mind. _It’ll be okay now. I’ll be okay if I’m with Eddie, and he’ll be okay if he’s with me._

***

_The trees wave lazily in the gentle breeze, making the sunlight filtering down ebb and flow like a tide of warmth and light. The dust-motes swirl in a dreamy dance, and the only sound is the occasional soft creak of wood as the hammock rocks slowly back and forth._

_The sharp scents of fresh earth, wood and resin fill his nostrils and he breathes in deeply. It’s comforting, hidden and safe. It’s home._

_He’s not alone — in the hammock he never was, not for long. As Eddie carefully climbs in with him, the hammocks swings more forcefully, and Richie braces one leg on the floor to steady it, to stop them from tumbling to the dusty floor._

_Huh. He could never reach the floor from the hammock before._

_Eddie hums in thanks and settles himself not by Richie’s side — socked feet to bespectacled face — but directly on top of him, his body a warm weight along Richie’s chest and legs. Richie looks up at him and Eddie smiles gently, all over his lined, handsome, adult face._

_But that’s not right. They never did this as adults. Richie thought about it, Richie wanted to, but they never did, they ran out of time because—_

_“Rich?” Eddie nuzzles Richie’s cheek with his nose, strokes it over skin and stubble, before following the line of Richie’s jaw with his mouth, soft tentative kisses leading a burning path up to his ear, down his neck._

_“Eds…?”_

_“Hmm?” Eddie hums absently, intent on his work, his mouth opening slightly against the sensitive skin of Richie’s throat, biting down very gently, making Richie gasp and fist his hands into the back of Eddie’s shirt, tugging him closer._

_Eddie pulls back, propping himself up with his forearms against Richie’s chest, and he reaches up to push Richie’s glasses up into his messy hair, trailing his hand down Richie’s face to cup his cheek._

_“You know,” Eddie whispers, “you worry too much.”_

_Eddie leans in and touches their mouths together, gently at first, but then Richie feels the tip of Eddie’s tongue against his closed lips and his mouth falls open with a soft moan. Eddie smiles into the kiss, sliding his tongue into Richie’s mouth and crushing their bodies together._

_Eddie shifts slightly, adjusting the position of his hips so he’s got one thigh nestled in between Richie’s legs, pressing down insistently where Richie’s hard and getting harder._

_“Eds…” Richie pulls away with a gasp, but Eddie just moves again, so Richie can feel that Eddie is hard inside the soft red shorts he’s wearing, and he grinds against Richie forcefully so that Richie’s head tips back against the coarse fabric of the hammock, and he moans again, louder in the safe silence of the empty clubhouse. He places his hands on Eddie’s hips, pulls him down flush against his crotch again, and Eddie responds instinctively, push-and-pull, give-and-take._

_“We…” Richie’s all but breathless, “we never did this as kids…”_

_“No,” Eddie agrees softly, “we didn’t.”_

_“I wanted to,” he says._

_Eddie stops moving instantly, pulling himself away from Richie and staring down at him, his expression twisting with malice._

_“I know you did,” he says, his voice taunting and cruel, “you sick fuck. I was a kid, I was thirteen, and this is how you thought of me, how you looked at me. I know what you wanted then, I know what you want now…”_

_Richie tries to push himself away; the hammock sways nauseatingly but Eddie doesn’t falter, staring down at Richie in disgust._

_“You didn’t even tell me the whole secret,” Eddie spits. “You told me you were a faggot but you never said it was me you wanted. That’s because you know the truth though, right? You know I’d never kiss you, never want you. You know I’d never look you in the face again if I knew.”_

_Eddie’s eyes gleam; hard and too bright, not warm and brown but cool and sick and yellow…_

_“You’re not Eddie,” Richie realises. “Get the fuck off me, you’re not Eddie.”_

_“I could be…” It croons, stroking a hand down Richie’s cheek again. “I’m the closest you’ll ever get.” The hand trails further down, past Richie’s jaw and around his throat._

_“You think he’d let you share his bed if he knew? You think he’d ever touch you again?”_

_The hand around his throat is joined by the other, squeezing, crushing, choking, and Richie gasps for breath, gasps for a breath he’ll never catch, gasps just like—_

Richie jolts awake, breath still caught in his throat and in his chest and he gasps desperately, dizzy and nauseous. The room is pitch black as his eyes adjust to the darkness, silent except for the distant hum of night time traffic and the thundering of Richie’s heart. He tentatively places his shaking fingers against his throat, but there’s no answering thrill of pain, nothing crushed or broken. His breaths come a little easier and his heartbeat starts to slow and he becomes aware of Eddie pressed up against his back, the solid reality of him layered over the hazy images of Eddie from the dream crushed against him, moving, grinding, leaning towards Richie to touch their lips together—

Then Eddie shifts lazily and Richie jerks away from him in panic, shoving back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The cool air draws goose bumps over his skin and either this, or Richie’s sudden movement, finally rouses Eddie all the way to wakefulness.

“Rich?” He props himself up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes and shoving his messy hair back from his face with his other hand. He blinks hazily at Richie, his face all shadows and lines in the half-light, and Richie’s heart begins to hammer again, sure that if Eddie looks at him for too long he’s going to see right into Richie’s dirty mind and know every shameful, grubby little thought he’s ever had about his best friend. He’s fifteen all over again, unable to look at Eddie first thing in the morning in homeroom after dreaming about his hands and his mouth and waking up—

“You have a nightmare?” Eddie says softly, his face so open and affectionate that Richie’s stomach clenches with guilt.

“I...yeah,” he chokes out, edging further away from Eddie until he gives up the ghost and just stands up. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’m just gonna—”

He hovers for a minute, wondering if it’s too late to go downstairs to reception and ask for another room, wondering if it looks too suspicious to just sleep on the balcony or in the bathtub or out in the fucking corridor or anywhere that gets him away from Eddie’s concerned gaze.

“Richie...” Eddie sits up fully and reaches out to lightly wrap his fingers around Richie’s wrist. Richie starts to pull away, but to his surprise the touch is grounding and comforting, Eddie warm and real against his skin. Eddie tugs slightly. “Richie you’re literally shaking, get back into bed before you collapse dummy.”

Richie hesitates for a second, but when Eddie tugs again he allows himself to be guided back onto the bed and Eddie lets go of his wrist, leaving Richie bereft only for a second before he wraps his arms around Richie’s shoulders and hugs him tightly. For a moment it’s almost too much, too much like the dream to be holding Eddie against his body, to be able to smell Eddie’s clean hair and press his nose against the soft skin of his neck, but then Eddie pulls away and searches Richie’s face and even in the near-darkness there’s no way those eyes belong to anyone but Eddie Kaspbrak.

“You want to talk about it?” Eddie says gently, as he lies back down and holds the covers out to make space for Richie to join him, before tucking the comforter around him so carefully and fastidiously that it raises tears in Richie’s eyes again. Richie shakes his head.

“Okay,” says Eddie slowly. “Do you...think you should though? I mean...sometimes things seem really scary in your head but then you say them out loud and the world doesn’t end and you wonder what you were ever afraid of.”

This finally draws a small smile out of Richie.

“I guess you’d know about that huh?” he says, and Eddie just waits in patient silence. He’s never told Eddie anything about his dreams — and he’d rather rip his own face off than tell _anyone_ about what he just woke up from — but maybe he can apply his new philosophy here. _A_ truth, if not _the_ truth.

“It’s just variations on a theme Eds," he says. "We've all got enough pent-up trauma to provide us with nightmares for life, right?"

He scrubs the tears away with the heel of his hand, but Eddie seems to understand, because he grabs it once Richie’s done and threads their fingers together, just like he had done in the Townhouse back in Derry.

“Want me to tell you a secret?” Eddie says after a few minutes. “From when we were kids? It’s something I only remembered recently?” He raises his eyebrows at Richie, who stares at him warily, until Eddie gives him a little grin. “Come on, it’s kind of embarrassing for me, it’ll cheer you up,” he coaxes, until Richie gives a little sniff and nods.

“Okay,” Eddie wriggles around a little, like he’s settling down into story-telling mode, but he doesn’t let go of Richie’s hand. “So, the January after the clown happened was when Bev left, remember? And then that summer Ben left too and they didn’t write to us and they never called and we thought, _oh well we hadn’t really known them that long_ , and I don’t think we really thought that, but it was an easy explanation. But then—”

“Bill left,” Richie says, and Eddie nods.

“Exactly, in — ah — ninety-one? And then when he didn’t call or write or anything, it was so much harder to pretend that it was normal growing apart, you know? I’d known Bill since I was four — eleven years, when he left — and I loved him so fucking much.”

Eddie says this with fervour, and Richie nods, because Eddie did, because they all did, because he was _Bill_. Richie understands that, but if Eddie’s embarrassing secret is that he’s still nurturing his crush on Big Bill, Richie’s going to have to throw himself off the balcony.

“So by then, we were all pretty sure that — you know...”

“Advanced Clown Bullshit?” says Richie, making Eddie grin.

“Exactly, we knew something was making us forget. And then the year after Bill left, my mom told me we were leaving Derry.”

“Yeah,” Richie says, remembering the two of them sitting in the Barrens with Eddie saying _we’re leaving Rich, in a few weeks, and I don’t know what to do_ and resisting the temptation to just cling to him, to grab hold of him and run.

“Right, this is the embarrassing part,” says Eddie, taking a deep breath. “So when my mom told me we were moving to New York I nearly...I nearly asked you to leave Derry with me.” He says this in a rush, flushed pink and barely able to meet Richie’s eyes. Richie frowns.

“What, and live with you and your mom in New York? Me and your mom were deeply in love Eds but wouldn’t that have been awkward for you — ow!”

Richie laughs as Eddie releases his hand to pinch his thigh.

“Shut up Richie, dipshit! Obviously I didn’t mean—"

“Wait, you meant—" The smile falls from Richie’s face. “You meant like...me and you? Just leave together?”

Eddie nods, his face thoughtful.

“I really wanted to go to NYU but I would’ve gone pretty much anywhere that wasn’t fucking Derry. Like, if you had your heart set on Chicago, or LA, I’d have gone there with you. But I thought about us going to New York,” he smiles wistfully and Richie wants so badly to kiss that smile that he has to clench his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms so the pain is something else to focus on.

“You know,” Eddie says softly, “living in a crappy shoe box of an apartment cause we couldn’t afford anything better. And I was going to go to college — I didn’t want to study business then, I wanted to do engineering. And you—"

“Worked the waitressing job in this weird Friends alternative universe you've cast us in?”

“No doofus!” he laughs. “This was like a daydream, only good things happened to us.”

“We were living in a shoe-box! You couldn’t have daydreamed us up a fancy penthouse?”

“Okay, it was a daydream but it was still, y'know, realistic. I was gonna go to school and you were gonna start doing stand-up — that’s what I pictured you doing, even then — and eventually I was gonna work on race cars or something and you were gonna audition for Saturday Night Live and be super famous.”

“And they both lived happily ever after?” says Richie.

Eddie rolls his eyes and kicks at Richie’s ankle gently with the tips of his toes, but he’s smiling.

“That’s cute Eds, your little Bert and Ernie fantasy.”

“You _do_ have Ernie’s voice,” says Eddie.

“And you have Bert’s eyebrows,” Richie counters, poking gently at the little frown in between them. “Why did you never tell me this? You never actually asked.”

Eddie sighs.

“Cause the idea of getting like, five miles clear of Derry and suddenly having no idea who you were was terrifying. Like...it was bad enough when Bill forgot but at least there was distance. I couldn’t handle the idea of looking my stupid best friend in his stupid face and seeing a stranger.”

Richie hums softly, and Eddie gives him a pensive look. He really hopes Eddie isn’t going to ask him what his answer would have been, if he’d pushed away that fear all those years ago and asked Richie to leave with him. Obviously once little teen Richie — young and optimistic and desperately in love — had stopped dissolving like sugar in hot coffee the answer would have been yes. _Yes, of course I’d have gone with you. Wherever you wanted to go, I’d follow you anywhere. I'd have followed you to New York, in fact I tried—_

But Eddie just sighs sadly.

“But maybe that’s not what would have happened, maybe if we’d have stayed together we wouldn’t have forgotten. Maybe we could have had that time.”

“We'd have had a _great_ time.”

It hurts to picture it, the two of them just starting out in their lives as stupid, hopeful kids. Having just gotten away from Derry, the clown, Bowers, Eddie’s mom...in a crappy little apartment that was home to just the two of them, with a door they could close on the outside world, would Richie have been brave enough to tell Eddie everything?

He had hugged Eddie ferociously and buried his teary face in his hair and made him _swear_ to call the minute they got to New York, but in the end he had let him go. Just another mistake in Richie’s long, long list.

“Yeah,” says Eddie, “that’s why...I know it seems like you had to talk me into this road trip thing Rich, but I think it’s a great idea. I’m so glad we’re doing this. It’s like...like a second chance.”

 _Yeah,_ thinks Richie, _and this time I’ll do it right._

***

“What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a video camera Eds,” Richie says, gleefully zooming in on Eddie’s unimpressed scowl. It’s been weeks since Richie first thought of taking a road trip with Eddie, and he can’t believe _this_ genius idea only occurred to him after two days in New York. It took a while to find the right one, and to think of a way of talking Eddie into appearing on screen for any length of time, but the dimple that’s starting to show in Eddie’s un-scarred cheek suggests Richie might have an easy ride on this one.

“I can see that dipshit, why is it pointed at my face?”

“Because your classically handsome visage deserved to be witnessed by the world Eddie, my love.”

Eddie raises his middle finger to the screen, moving his hand closer to the lens until the entire picture is obscured.

“We can film Richie and Eddie’s Incredible Adventure and then send the videos to the losers, so they can see what a good time we’re having and yearn to be along for the ride with us,” Richie waggles his eyebrows at Eddie, who’s expression doesn’t shift. “Or...when you finally snap and smother me with a hotel pillow, this will be the evidence that convicts you?”

“A jury would watch footage of you trying to eat your nachos yesterday and acquit me immediately for my service to humanity,” says Eddie, but he grins and then pulls a stupid face at the camera.

Score.

Richie’s not even sure himself why he wants to do this. Part of the appeal was definitely to see the annoyed, scrunchy expression Eddie whipped out when he suddenly had a camera in his face — and he did not disappoint — but a bigger part is Richie wanting to _document_ that expression, and Eddie’s myriad of others. If this is the last big thing they ever get to do together before Eddie moves on with his life, Richie wants to remember it in vivid fucking detail.

(He records Eddie with a fierce scowl, fighting his way through the New York crowd. He records him laughing when Richie falls on his ass ice-skating in Central Park, and catches a weirdly fond expression on his face watching Richie get excited over the Christmas lights.)

Midway through the week, they meet Ben and Bev for lunch in the little Italian where he had met Eddie on his first night. They make a loud foursome, although granted most of that noise is Richie and Eddie, and the comfort of having a small section of the Losers back together warms Richie all the way through.

Once they have food and drinks in front of them, Bev’s expression immediately shifts into something troublesome.

“So Richie,” she says, in a falsely innocent voice that makes the hairs on his neck stand up. “Are you having a good time romancing your New York mystery man?”

She and Ben laugh and Eddie groans, but Richie has to fight the urge to hide his face. Obviously he knew he’d be spotted in New York and was even prepared for pictures of him to end up online somewhere. What he had not prepared for was how it would look to come out publicly, and then reappear on the opposite coast in the constant presence of a very handsome man. Bev had sent the group chat the link to a TMZ article headlined, _Richie Tozier Spotted Romancing New York Mystery Man_ at the start of the week, and Richie had immediately wanted to hide under the bed.

“My New York mystery man is very satisfied,” he says instead, stoking Bev and Ben’s laughter and making Eddie roll his eyes.

“I had to call my lawyer you know,” he says irritably, gesturing wildly with a fork full of spinach, “to let her know that I definitely didn’t ask for a divorce because of an affair with my childhood sweetheart.”

The phrase _childhood sweetheart_ is too much for Richie’s fragile heart right now, and he’s grateful when Bev scoffs loudly.

“There’s no proof of anything,” she says. “You can’t see anything except the back of Eddie’s head in the picture, and all you’re doing is drinking coffee. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Once their meal is over, Bev drags Richie to the bar to settle their bill.

“You look happy,” she says softly. He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes trained on Ben and Eddie, but he nods.

“I’m having fun,” he says simply. “I’m happy he said yes.”

He can’t explain his feelings in any more depth than that right now, but Bev seems to understand; she gives his forearm a gentle squeeze as she leans over to talk to the bartender. Richie glances back at their table and sees Eddie and Ben with their heads together over a shared menu, having an intense-looking conversation. He nudges Bev with his elbow.

“They do realise we’re not staying for seconds, right? What’re they doing?”

She follows his gaze, and then smiles.

“Two-person group therapy,” she says, and then laughs a little when he frowns at her. “I mean, we’re one big seven-person therapy group aren’t we? But,” she shrugs, “there are issues that some of us understand better than others. I absolutely would not be dealing with this divorce well without Ben, but…” she shrugs. “I don’t think I’d be dealing with it at all without Eddie. Ben loves me and wants to help but Eddie…Eddie _knows_. And I’m doing the same for him, you know? This is just therapy for a different issue.”

Richie looks back at them; Ben is talking and Eddie is nodding as he stares thoughtfully at the menu. He thinks about kid Ben, shy and self-conscious, aging into a young adult who had no idea he’d had friends who loved him and didn’t give a shit about his weight. He imagines Ben meticulously counting calories the way Eddie tracked allergens and using exercise to punish his body like Eddie used it to ruthlessly control his, and aches a little for both of them. Then Ben bursts out laughing, and a grinning Eddie pretends to hit him with the laminated menu, and Bev smiles.

“I’m glad they have each other,” she says, and Richie hums in agreement, and then feels Bev turn her attention on him. “Who should you be in group therapy with Trashmouth?”

She says it gently, as though she’s not really expecting an answer, and he stares at Ben thoughtfully. So Stan knows — has always known — and Bev knows. Mike and Ben were the ones to drag him out of the sewers away from Eddie — and Bill was there to witness that — so they probably know too. Everyone knows, except Eddie, which means Richie could theoretically talk to any of them about it, if he could force himself to say it out loud. But he thinks about what Bev said, about talking to someone who really understands, and wonders if he’s missed a trick.

Not that it’s an easy thing to just bring up. _Hey Ben, I need to talk to you about Eddie, because I know you understand what it’s like to fall in love as a kid and never fall out of it again, and even though I forgot his name God, I think he walked right out of Derry with my heart in his back pocket so I could never even imagine giving it to anyone else because I didn’t have it, but I didn’t know that so I just assumed there was something wrong with me…_

Sounds like a fun conversation.

Besides, Ben and Bev worked their shit out and got together, they’re happy now, so maybe it’s not fair to dump his feelings all over Ben when there’s no way the same thing is going to happen for Richie.

But…

He thinks about it. Eddie’s arms around his shoulders when he woke from the nightmare, Eddie falling asleep pressed against him in a bed he’d let Richie share. Eddie who has just agreed to spend the next however many months this takes with just Richie for company. Eddie who is gay.

He’s been caught staring, and Eddie makes sudden eye-contact with him, his face blank and serious. Then he very slowly raises his hand and sticks his middle finger up, remaining expressionless the whole time. Richie laughs, and Eddie breaks and grins at him.

It’s dangerous. It’s a dangerous way of thinking, dangerous to let himself hope when it’ll hurt so much more down the line to have that hope shattered.

It’s been a long time since Richie let himself hope for anything, but as they leave the restaurant Eddie falls into step beside him, their elbows brushing together, and Richie wonders if it might be time to give it a try.

(Richie records Eddie rolling his eyes when he insists on dragging them to the most obvious tourist spots, complaining about the crowds in Times Square and the noise in Rockefeller Center watching the tree go up. Bev records him letting Ben piggy-back him around Central Park while she and Richie laugh, carefully add splashes of whiskey to their takeaway coffees, and wrap his own scarf carefully around Richie’s neck when the wind picks up.)

Towards the end of the week, Richie and Eddie get brunch at the coffee shop owned by Eddie’s friend Leo.

It’s not the first time they’ve been here. Eddie dragged Richie in at the start of the week, and Richie was forced to witness Leo obviously light up at the sight of Eddie, before giving Richie an appraising once-over. There had been a little flirting, but Eddie had been so oblivious that Richie had done a good job of keeping his jealousy in check until Eddie had handed both of their drinks to Richie so he could tuck his wallet into his pocket, and Richie had glanced down to see ‘Eds’ written in loopy handwriting across one of the cups, and felt hot, unpleasant anger bubble in his gut. He’d handed Eddie his drink and impulsively tucked him under his arm on the way out.

Leo looked a lot less enthusiastic to see them this morning, and Richie’s fighting a war between triumph and vague guilt about it.

“You’re…you’re sure this stuff doesn’t bother you?” Richie says, trying not to stare too hard at Eddie licking honey from his shiny lips. “That people think we’re…”

His phone is on the table between them, open at the third TMZ article of the week about Richie Tozier and his mystery man. The second had another grainy, far away shot of them walking around Prospect Park, but this latest one is a close-up, in-focus picture of the two of them leaving Eddie’s hotel, Richie’s arm around Eddie’s shoulders.

Richie stared at it for a full ten minutes when Bev had sent him the link, and even now he can barely look at it without feeling the heat of a blush in his face.

It’s not like it’s an explicit picture, people have way worse than this leaked to the press all the time. It’s not even especially intimate — he and Eddie have always been pretty handsy with each other and none of the Losers would even blink at Richie having an arm around Eddie. But he looks at Eddie’s _trying-not-to-smile_ smile, the way his dimples are showing, the way he’s clearly leaning into Richie and he can’t help but melt a little. And he looks at himself, his own smile sunny and genuine, his posture loose and relaxed and has he once looked that happy in the past twenty years? It’s like looking at the selfies they took on the way out of Derry, it’s like comparing himself to Ben, it’s getting his hopes up in a way he knows is going to hurt later.

It’s not a helpful thought at all, but still...

They look so fucking good together.

Eddie had glanced over the article with a shrug when Richie proffered it to him, but he’s definitely more interested in his bagel, picking it apart with his slender fingers and eating it in little bites.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says with a shrug, and then he freezes suddenly, his eyebrows contracted with concern as he looks over at Richie. “Does it bother you?”

“Why would it bother me?” Richie asks. “I’m not the one trying to get through a messy divorce with my testicles intact.”

Eddie kicks him under the table for that, but he still looks worried.

“Coming out was the hardest part Eds,” he says gently, “I don’t care what people think I’m up to now.”

“Still,” Eddie nibbles at his bottom lip. “God, you know it’s going to kill me to say this, but you are an actual famous person. Aren’t you bothered that people think you’re dating some random nobody?”

Richie gapes at him for a second, and then laughs, because if he doesn’t there’s a real risk he might cry.

“Eddie, Eds...you have got to download Twitter again. Literally every tweet I’ve had this week that isn’t homophobic bullshit is wondering how the fuck I landed you.”

Eddie narrows his eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“Seriously, it’s all thirst tweets and people telling me how far above my weight I’m punching,” he says, but Eddie is still scowling at him suspiciously.

“Why?”

“Because...” Richie gestures at him with both hands, incredulous. Doesn’t Eddie realise what he looks like? He must do, he sees the same lean, handsome face in the mirror every day — the same thick dark hair, the heart-melting doe eyes. He takes such good care of his body, he must know what great shape he’s in, and now he’s choosing clothes based on what he likes rather than what he thinks he should be wearing, Richie’s not surprised that Eddie’s the one getting all the media attention now.

“Eddie,” he says seriously, “I don’t know if I should be the one to break this incredible news to you but...you’re kind of ridiculously hot, dipshit.”

Eddie stares blankly at him for what feels like forever, and Richie begins to panic. _Shouldn’t have said that, you’re giving away everything, he’s going to know..._

But then Eddie rolls his eyes and scoffs.

“Fine, make fun of me asshole. See if I give a shit about your reputation again.”

He turns his attention immediately back to his bagel, and at first all Richie can feel is spine-melting relief that Eddie is brushing it off as a joke. But that relief quickly dissolves into a fishhook tug of guilt in his gut. He remembers Eddie over the phone, crossing the Losers off a list of Richie’s potential adolescent crushes, and never including himself as a candidate. He thinks of Eddie’s insistence that neither Bev’s friend Cary nor the wannabe Mike still occasionally giving the back of Eddie’s head a wounded glance from the counter could possibly be flirting with him.

Does Eddie really _not_ know how gorgeous he is?

That’s unacceptable. He deserves to know, even if Richie is too chicken-shit to tell him properly himself.

Eddie does not reinstall Twitter, so Richie spends the remainder of the week screen-shotting some of the best tweets to send him until he’s blushing and flustered and _furious_.

(Eddie records Richie eating a hot-dog while walking around Broadway, getting excited over second-hand copies of comics they both used to own in the Strand book store and both of them taking turns improvising ridiculous voices for all the exhibits in the Smithsonian, until neither of them can talk for laughing.)

***

All in all, they spend just over a week in New York preparing for their trip, and the best week Richie’s had in longer than he can remember.

On their last night in the city, Eddie sits cross-legged on the bed, sorting through his various lists and spreadsheets, adding things to Richie’s itinerary folder. Richie sits opposite, the camera trained on Eddie’s face, with his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, his tongue just poking out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’m literally double-checking our car insurance paperwork Rich,” he says, glancing up to glare into the camera, “this is interesting to no one.”

“The paperwork for our _boring_ car—”

“The Escalade is not boring! It’s a sensible, practical car for driving thousands of miles. If we’d have left it up to _you_ —"

“Go on, tell all our friends why you crushed my vehicular dreams Eds.”

“Firstly, that’s not my goddam name,” he says, cheerfully. “Secondly — I get it, I do. You watched too much Scooby-Doo as a kid and now you want to drive around in a hippie van unmasking creepy lighthouse-keepers dressed as sea monsters. But!” his voice pitches louder to be heard over Richie’s laughter. “Every VW bus I found for sale was like, double what my car is worth. And the one that we did have the money for was a wreck!”

“You are very handy with mechanical things—"

“Yeah but I can’t do _magic_ ,” he insists. “There was a rusted-junk-to-functional-car ratio that was definitely beyond my skills to work with.”

“So, what I’m hearing is that it was a bit of a fixer-upper?”

“Exactly,” says Eddie, a glint in his eyes. “Definitely a Richie car.”

“Hey!” Richie kicks at him gently, but Eddie’s too fast and grabs Richie’s foot in his hand, tipping Richie off-balance and sending the camera bouncing from his grasp.

“You’re ruining my cinematic masterpiece Kaspbrak,” Richie grouses, as he reaches under the bed. Eddie cackles, and as Richie’s fingers close around the camera he wonders suddenly what their friends will make of any of these videos, if he ever has the guts to show them. A vivid picture of Stan’s stern glare and Bev’s concerned frown pop into his head, and for a second he’s tempted to abandon the camera right there.

Eddie seals the last of his paperwork into the folder, and leans over to shove it into one of the suitcases that lie piled together next to the bed. Richie gets a little thrill in his chest when he looks at them, the same way he did trying to get to sleep the night before a family vacation when he was a kid.

The room looks strangely bleak now that all of their stuff is packed away. Richie’s only been here just over a week but this little room he’s shared with Eddie — he never did find his own, and Eddie never mentioned it — has felt weirdly safe. Now most of their clothes are packed, the bathroom is empty, the dressing table is bare—

“Wait,” says Richie suddenly, scowling at the empty surface. “What have you done with Gladys?” He scans the room for evidence of the shepherdess figure before turning a suspicious gaze onto Eddie. “Please tell me she didn’t end up in the trash.”

“She’s ugly Richie, even you said she was ugly.”

“Not everyone is blessed with being as naturally cute as you Eds, but that doesn’t mean we belong in the garbage.”

He narrows his eyes at Eddie, who gives him a crooked little smile.

“Fine,” he concedes, “I spared her. She went in with the stuff I asked Ben and Bev to look after for me.”

Gladys had been the only one of the three souvenirs of Eddie’s panicked escape from home to survive the week. Motherclucker the egg-timer had met his demise when Eddie had dropped a suitcase on him, and the spatula had been accidentally flung from the balcony when Richie had been using it as a prop in a story, and had gotten a bit enthusiastic with his hand gestures. An answering ‘what the _fuck_?’ had floated up from the street below them, and Eddie had laughed until he was nearly sick.

Richie had grown fond of moving Gladys to a different location in their hotel room every day, so that Eddie kept opening the medicine cabinet or pulling back the curtains to find her waiting for him. But eventually Eddie had admitted that he sort of liked her, because occasionally he’d had moments of wondering what the fuck he was doing with his life, and he would look at Gladys and be able to vividly picture the unhappy home they had both once lived in, reminding him he was doing the right thing.

Now Richie kind of loves the stupid thing.

“Good,” he says begrudgingly. “They better treat her right.” 

Eddie stands up and stretches.

“I want to change before we go to bed,” he says.

“Okay,” says Richie, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“Which means turn the camera off, doofus.”

“What kind of film do you think we’re making Eds?” he says, picking it up again and deliberately zooming in on Eddie, who scowls at him briefly, but then pulls his t-shirt off anyway, making Richie drop the camera.

“Oh,” he says, scrambling to recover, “ _that_ kind of film.”

“Shut up Rich,” Eddie turns his back to Richie, sorting through a small pile of as-yet-unpacked clothes.

“Here you can see Eddie, swapping his immaculate white t-shirt for an identical immaculate white t-shirt,” Richie narrates, but the words die on his tongue as Eddie stretches to pull the new t-shirt over his head, the taut lines of his torso highlighting his defined abs, his jeans hanging low on his hips, that prominent ‘v’ of muscle just visible over the waistband. Richie turns off the camera.

“What?” Eddie snaps, pulling the t-shirt down over his stomach and folding his arms across his chest. “I can’t decide whether you’re having a meltdown over the scar or thinking of a joke about the tattoo.”

Richie had in fact been lost in a vivid daydream about sliding off the bed onto the floor and pressing his mouth to the jut of Eddie’s pointy hip bone, but he jumps gratefully on the excuse.

“The tattoo,” he says, as Eddie shucks his jeans off and pulls on a pair of soft heather lounge pants. Once he’s comfortable, Eddie reclines on the bed and levels Richie with a wary sort of look.

“Go on?”

“Why did you get it done? I mean...I know you said your...your friend in college helped you do it, but why did you want it?”

Eddie sighs, but thoughtfully rather than impatiently, and scratches the end of his nose.

“I don’t know, there’s something about bodily autonomy in there I guess. I spent my entire childhood feeling like my body was out of my control, like I had no say over what happened to it, it was a way of doing something to prove it was still mine. And...” he hesitates, but he’s fighting a smile. “I went through a... _thing_ in college. The only time outside of Derry I was ever a little bit rebellious, so...” he shrugs, but Richie laughs in delight.

“You did it to piss your mom off!” he says, and Eddie’s grin widens.

“A bit,” he admits ruefully.

“Never fucking mind Eds,” Richie says. “That’s the best reason I can think of to do _anything_.”

They’re quiet for a moment, before Richie reaches out impulsively and tickles the sole of Eddie’s socked foot.

“You could get another one,” he says. “You know, not to prove you can or to stick it to your mom but just because...because you want it.”

“Suppose I could,” Eddie says pensively, as though the thought never occurred to him before. Then he grins again. “I’m gonna get _welcome to the losers club, asshole_.”

“Yeah,” Richie grins, “or a bat. Or a red balloon!”

“Or a clown!”

“Get a tramp-stamp that says _Beep-Beep Richie_.”

“I’d have to get it tattooed across my forehead, then I’d never have to waste my breath saying it twenty times a day.”

“Get the word _Loser_ with a _V_ over the _S_ ,” says Richie, expecting Eddie to laugh, a little thrown when his expression turns soft.

“I _would_ get that,” he says, his smile quiet and sweet. He looks so relaxed and happy, spread out across the bed; all untidy hair and warm eyes trained on Richie’s face intently. It would be so easy, Richie thinks, to crawl across the bed towards him, to have Eddie’s skin under his hands and their mouths pressed together.

But that would be stupid, so Richie lets his mouth run instead.

“Get a little heart with _Mommy_ written inside,” he says, and immediately wants to rip his own tongue out. Eddie’s expression shifts, his eyes turning cool and his mouth setting into a hard line. He’s fickle about how funny he finds the subject of his mother. Sometimes he makes jokes Richie would never _dare_ make, sometimes his whole expression slams shut like a door the minute she’s mentioned.

Richie opens his mouth to apologise, but then Eddie moves, fast and sure, to pull the throw pillow out from behind his head and launch it straight at Richie’s face. It takes him by surprise, knocks him backwards and sends his glasses flying onto the carpet, and Eddie leans forward to grab the pillow again and whack Richie on the top of the head with it.

“That’s _so_ not funny!” He shouts. “You’re not fucking funny asshole.”

But as Richie snatches the pillow out of his hands to hit back, Eddie’s grinning all over his gorgeous face and laughing even as he’s yelling, and Richie thinks — briefly, stupidly — that he could live forever on nothing but the sound.

***

In the morning, Eddie volunteers to take the first leg of their drive, and as they ease out of the hotel parking lot, Richie immediately whips out the camera and trains it on the side of Eddie’s face.

He expects Eddie to roll his eyes, shove the camera away, scold Richie for distracting him while he’s driving. Instead Eddie just turns the volume of Richie’s playlist higher, and smiles directly at him, bright and warm and excited, as they leave New York behind and head for Georgia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the end I did split this chapter in half. When you get a load of next chapter, which is about the same length, you will see what a naive fool I was to ever think I could be concise enough for it to fit into one reasonably sized chapter.
> 
> Also -- the difficulty with writing a story about a professional comedian and his equally funny best friend when you are, sadly, not that funny amirite? I have tried to write their banter to the best of my limited abilities!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	6. Me With You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW - one use of the 'f' slur and one use of the word 'queer' being used in a derogatory manner, plus general references to abusive relationships and canon-typical Sonia Kaspbrak behavior.

_It was a freezing night and not a single cloud_

_I had a couple in me so I reached out_

_And then I heard your voice_

_Felt you all inside_

_I prayed for the distance to keep us in line_

_But there's things I've done you understand like no one else_

_There's pain I kept buried deep inside myself_

_I've been saying for forever "hey that's not me"_

_But me with you is who I think I'll always be_

_Please Say No - Jimmy Eat World_

It takes them less than a day to start deviating from their itinerary. 

Eddie had wanted to plan all of their stops in advance, but Richie argued that this was not in the spirit of the road trip, and in the end they had compromised by agreeing that their overnight stays could be planned spontaneously as long as they were chosen by Eddie, so he could be sure Richie wasn’t booking them into anywhere weird, like the underwater hotel wouldn’t have been _awesome_.

They had alternated driving out of New York — stopping once to eat club sandwiches in the car while Eddie had minor breakdowns over every dropped breadcrumb — until they’d decided to call it a night at a small motel just outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. They hadn’t talked about whether or not they would continue to share a bed, or even a room, and Eddie had agreed without hesitation when the bored looking kid on the reception desk had told them there were only double rooms left. It had been late enough by then that Richie had been too tired to feel awkward about it. 

He feels awkward about it now though. 

Their time sharing a bed in New York had reminded Richie what it was like to sleep next to Eddie as a kid, who still shifts and kicks and wriggles like he did back then, when Richie became accustomed to waking up with their legs tangled together and Eddie’s hair in his mouth. Twitchy little weirdo can’t even sit still when he’s _unconscious_.

When Richie wakes up to find Eddie still sleeping, curled away from him like a compact little comma, they aren’t touching, but Eddie’s moved around so much in the night that his loose cotton t-shirt has ridden right up to his sloping shoulder blades. Richie rubs his eyes and as the world slides into better focus, the first thing he’s confronted with is the jagged burst of scar tissue in the centre of Eddie’s back. 

He stares. He tries not to when Eddie’s awake, in case it makes him self-conscious, but Richie’s eye is always drawn to the scars, like a car-crash or an explosive argument between strangers in public. _Don’t want to look but can’t look away_. Sometimes Richie looks and thinks, _look how fucking tough he is, took a monster’s claw to the chest and here is still is, there’s the proof painted right across his skin, proof he survived, proof it happened._

Sometimes he looks and thinks, _that’s all my fault. If I’d been quicker, smarter, if I’d just done something…_

But hell, it’s not like he isn’t used to staring at Eddie Kaspbrak while being devoured by guilt. He’s an expert by now.

He reaches out, almost subconsciously, thinking to just press the tip of his finger against the raised flesh, but then Eddie shifts and Richie pulls back his hand immediately, letting it fall, palm up, onto the bed between them. Eddie stretches and slowly turns over, blinking at him hazily, and then his gaze falls on Richie’s hand. Panic coils in Richie’s stomach for a second, as though Eddie will know just by looking at Richie’s fingers what they were itching to do, but then Eddie reaches over and takes Richie’s hand. Richie’s pretty sure he stops breathing, but Eddie just lifts his hand from the mattress and then gently pats it back down, miming winning an arm-wrestling match. He laughs, and Richie laughs too, and feels the ghost of Eddie’s palm against his own for the rest of the day.

They finally to get to their Eddie-approved hotel in Atlanta mid-morning on Monday, and Richie reclines on one of the beds to watch Eddie perform his usual spot-checks and assessments.

One of the beds. Because this is a twin room. Which was available this time, thanks to the time of year leaving the nice hotel fairly empty of holiday-makers and tourists, and which Eddie had booked after both of them had fumbled and blushed and talked over each other discussing the merits of a double versus a twin.

“It’s nice,” Eddie says eventually, coming back into the bedroom and dropping down onto the other bed. Their plans in Atlanta stretch over an entire week, and after being cooped up in Eddie’s little hotel room in New York they had decided to book a suite; as well as the twin bedroom there’s a moderately-sized bathroom, a living room with a kitchenette and a balcony with a table and two chairs that will likely stay unused because even this far south it’s still December and it’s getting cool. The rooms are light and airy, decorated in contrasting shades of blue, and it already smells like polish and laundry detergent before Eddie’s had a chance to get scrubbing. He’s even consented to leave the sheets unchanged. 

“What time are we meeting Stan and Patty?” Richie asks.

“Not until five,” says Eddie, checking his watch. “We’ve got a few hours yet. I’m gonna go do a quick grocery shop,” he adds. “I spotted a Whole Foods on the way into town.” 

“You want me to come with?” Richie asks, starting to get up, but Eddie shakes his head sharply.

“No,” he says firmly. “You drove like the whole way here, and I slept a bit in the car. Take a nap or something.” 

They had agreed to trade off on the drive, but when it came to the point where Eddie should’ve taken over, Richie had looked over to find him curled up in the passenger seat, fast asleep, with Richie’s hoodie draped around him like a blanket, and hadn’t had the heart to wake him. 

The thought of grocery shopping with Eddie is weirdly appealing, but the set of Eddie’s jaw suggests Richie isn’t going to win this one, so he nods agreeably and Eddie’s gone, leaving Richie alone in their new home away from home. If he naps he’ll only wake up groggy and cranky, so he briefly considers unpacking, but there is a good chance he’ll do this wrong, by Kaspbrak standards, and he’d much rather do that while Eddie is around to annoy in person. Instead he fires up his laptop, and thinks vaguely about trying to write. He opens up a word document, stares at it mutinously for a few minutes, and then opens up his emails instead, ready to distract himself by clearing some spam. 

He stops on a message from Steve instead. They’ve been in sporadic contact since Richie called him the night before leaving LA for New York; Steve sending the odd message checking on how he is, hinting or asking pointed questions about writing or about his idea for Richie to make internet videos. Steve’s curious, Richie knows — about the Losers, Richie’s famous friends, Eddie, the weekend at the end of August where Richie disappeared off the planet for 48-hours and reappeared, unable to adequately explain himself. Richie feels bad about it, a little. Steve’s been there for him through a lot, and for a long time, but it’s not like he can just drop the monster-clown story on him. 

He clicks open the email, and frowns. 

  
From: Steve Covall  
To: Me  
CC: Angie Crane

  
Hi Richie,  
I know you’re not in LA at the moment and I hope you’re having a good time on your trip. No pressure, but I just wanted to check on with you on how you’re writing is going, and if you’d had time to think about some of the ideas we talked about back in September re: the YouTube channel that Kelly set up, and potentially filming some shorts for it? No rush, but keep me updated and let me know how it’s going.

Steve.

Richie isn’t sure what about the message gets his back up. It might be Steve’s continued insistence there’s no rush, no pressure, despite the fact that every time they talk it comes up in conversation. It might be the fact that Steve has copied his agent into the message, leaving Richie feeling uncomfortably ganged up on. Whatever it is, it’s enough to have him reacting before he really has time to think.

He doesn’t copy Angie in, but he messages Steve back with a short, brittle message and attaches a couple of the videos taken on his camera from their time in New York. He includes a personal favourite, himself and Eddie sitting on a wall in the park while Richie attempting to cajole Eddie into trying a bite of his hot-dog. Eddie lists off all the revolting ingredients that are likely to be in it, and the consequences of eating any of them until Richie implies Eddie simply can’t handle a little chilli relish. A glint of competitive spirit lights Eddie’s eyes and he grabs the hot-dog, takes a huge bite, and shoves it back at Richie. In the end, the relish had actually been a lot hotter than Richie had anticipated, and while Eddie has a surprisingly strong constitution for spicy food, Richie does not, and the video ends with Eddie taking over the filming while Richie curses and weeps and wipes his eyes.

 _There’s your video, Steve,_ he thinks, and sends the message, immediately closing his emails and turning back to his word document.

When he thinks about standing on a stage and telling jokes based on something truthful, he no longer wants to vomit. He’s not necessarily ready to actually _do it_ , but he thinks that getting to the stage where the thought isn’t nightmarish still counts as progress. What exactly he’s going to talk about is anyone’s guess, but as Eddie had said, a lot of their non-clown related adventures in Derry when they were kids can definitely be spun into anecdotes that people outside the Losers club might find funny. After all, Richie is not the only person to have grown up gay in a crappy small town that hated him for it, even if most towns don’t come with a free child-eating monster in the sewers. He can be real, he can be _relatable_. The kicker is that if he’s going to talk about his childhood — the quarry, the Barrens, the clubhouse, the _hammock_ — he’s inevitably going to end up talking about Eddie, and Eddie’s an oblivious dipshit sometimes, but he's not stupid. If people up in the nosebleed seats can see the hearts floating around Richie’s head every time he mentions Eddie’s name, he’s definitely gonna have some explaining to do.

The document is still resolutely empty an hour later when Eddie walks back into the room. 

He eases past Richie with two paper grocery bags in his arms, and sets them down on the sideboard, immediately starting to unpack whatever mysterious items he’s deemed necessary for their week. Richie turns to ask him, and is confronted by the sight of Eddie reaching to put something away in one of the cupboards, his t-shirt riding up just enough that Richie can see the two little dimples in the small of his back, and he immediately turns back to his laptop screen.

“What are you doing?” Eddie says eventually, scrunching up the now empty paper bags and throwing them lightly at the back of Richie’s head.

Richie thinks it’s probably safe to turn around now, and finds Eddie leaning against the sideboard with his arms folded, staring at Richie intently. Richie shrugs.

“I’m trying to do my job,” he says. “But I’ve apparently forgotten how to do it and probably won’t ever be able to do again.”

“So, you’re trying to write?” says Eddie, as Richie turns away from him again.

“Trying to find a way to be funny about my big gay crisis,” he says, and feels Eddie moving behind him.

“Rich,” he says fondly, “you _are_ a big gay crisis.”

Richie laughs sharply, about to snap back with something about Eddie being a _short_ gay crisis, when Eddie pops up behind him suddenly and wraps his strong arms around Richie’s shoulders, resting his chin on Richie’s head and squeezing firmly. Eddie’s chilly still, from being outside, but Richie is suddenly burning up.

“It’ll be brilliant,” Eddie says softly. “If it’s you writing it, it’ll be brilliant.” 

He presses a light kiss into Richie’s hair, and then pulls away again quickly, and when Richie turns around Eddie is facing away from him, pulling cups out of one of the cupboards.

“Do you want some coffee?” Eddie says. “We have coffee now.”

“Yeah Eds,” says Richie, staring at the tips of Eddie’s ears, which have turned pink. “Coffee sounds great.” 

***

It’s just after five-thirty when they finally get to the winter market where they’ve arranged to meet Stan and Patty.

The sun’s just set, but the market stalls have strings of white Christmas lights reaching across them, roof to roof, forming a glittering canopy overhead. The air is rapidly turning from cool to _cold_ , but Richie would rather die than admit that Eddie might have been right about his leather jacket not being seasonally appropriate. Eddie himself is tucked up in a Bev-approved indigo peacoat and the colour is contrasting vividly with his eyes, making them extra dark and rich. Richie had been attempting to film him, but the camera is snug in the pocket of his jacket now. He’d made the excuse of not being able to hear Eddie speaking over the crowd, but every time Eddie had smiled up at him, his eyes had reflected the twinkling lights in a way that had made Richie’s heart race, and he thought maybe it was best for his health if he didn’t have hours of that footage to dwell over.

The market _is_ buzzing with noise though; people huddled together, laughing and shouting, and a small stage at one end has a band playing jazzy versions of Christmas carols. There’s a break in the crowd just in front of it leaving room for people to dance, and Richie’s tempted for a second to drag Eddie over and swing him around to the trumpet-laden version of _Jingle Bells_ that’s just started up. He doesn’t, but in a fit of daring he does grab one of Eddie’s gloved hands under the pretence of trying not to lose him in the crowd—

“You’re so teeny Eds, I’ll turn my head for a second and you’ll be swept away!” 

—and although Eddie rewards this with a scowl, he doesn’t pull his hand away. He moves through the crowd with purpose, seeming to know exactly where he’s going, although Richie has no idea how. Richie’s dragged along behind him and before long they’ve reached the bar where they’re meeting Stan and Patty. It’s really just a bigger version of the other market stalls; a large, slatted roof with open sides, supported by huge wooden posts hung with more lights. A circular bar sits in the centre, and various tables are dotted around the structure. As they step under the roof, Richie notices several large heating units and huddles under one gratefully, ignoring Eddie’s pointed look and he unwinds his scarf and loosens the buttons on his own coat.

“There they are,” Eddie says, pointing over to one of the tables where Stan and Patty are waving at them. They make their way over and, away from the noise and the crowds and the lights, Richie immediately pulls out the camera. 

“Richard,” Stan deadpans at him, and Eddie sighs.

“Humour him Stanley,” he says, draping his coat over the back of a chair before pulling Patty into a hug. “You won’t win, trust me.”

Richie places the camera on the table to hug Stan, and then swaps Uris’ with Eddie, giving Patty a squeeze while she laughs delightedly into his shoulder.

“It’s nice to meet you in real life,” she says, as she pulls away. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“From Stan and Eddie?” Richie asks, raising his eyebrows. “That can’t be good.”

After Eddie has frowned at the menu — mainly fancy versions of street foods like burgers, hot dogs and falafels — for a while, they order food and drinks and settle into a weirdly comfortable conversation. The three of them have known each other since kindergarten, but Patty never feels like an outsider; she’s quick enough to keep up with Eddie, laughs at all the nonsense that comes out of Richie’s mouth, and Stanley looks at her like she’s the centre of the universe.

“Revolting,” Eddie says, as Stan leans over to press a kiss to her cheek. He smiles though, slightly. “You have no right to act this happy in front of someone getting a divorce.”

Patty smiles at him innocently.

“I have it on good authority that you’re currently being wined and dined by famous comedian Richie Tozier,” she says sweetly. 

“TMZ is not good authority,” Eddie says sulkily, flicking a leftover French fry at her. Richie opens his mouth to add to the joke, but stops short when he notices that Eddie is blushing, just a little; spots of colour high on his cheeks and over the bridge of his freckly nose, and closes his mouth again.

After they’ve finished eating, they wander around the stalls for a little while, pausing every so often to make a purchase, until Stan and Patty stop in front of the stage. There’s a soft, slow rendition of _Winter Wonderland_ being played now, and Stan doesn’t hesitate; he takes Patty by the hand and immediately leads her to the clearing in front of the stage serving as a small dance-floor. The scene is Christmas-movie beautiful; the music and the twinkling lights and their glowing, beaming faces — Richie aches, just a little, seeing them so happy. He glances down at Eddie, who catches his eye and smiles slightly, and Richie is suddenly filled with a fizzy rush of courage. He can step on Eddie’s toes, spin him around obnoxiously fast, pretend to drop him at the lowest point of a dip — anything to play it off as a joke. He looks at Eddie again, who is watching Stan twirling Patty around with an encouragingly wistful expression on his face, and Richie almost does it. He’s reaching out his hand for Eddie’s when a movement on the other side of the dancers catches his eye. Someone points, someone else pulls out a phone to snap a picture, and Richie pulls his hand back immediately, shoving them both deep into his jacket pockets instead, where they can’t do any harm. 

Later, when they’ve said goodbye to Stan and Patty and driven back to their hotel, Richie is tucked up in his bed, scrolling through Twitter while Eddie brushes his teeth.

  
 **Richie Lives** @ellabella Spotted Richie Tozier and his new guy on a double date at the winter market in Atlanta looking v cozy…

  
The picture is the two of them watching the dancers — they’re not even _doing_ anything, just standing and smiling, although they’re pressed close together by the crowd and if Richie zooms in their fingertips are almost brushing.

He sighs, and shoves his phone into the drawer in the little beside table. If people are posting pictures of him and Eddie just standing next to each other, god knows what would've happened if Richie had actually had the courage to ask Eddie to dance. 

Eddie eventually emerges from the bathroom, and he hovers by the light switch, his eyebrows raised questioningly at Richie. He nods, and Eddie turns out the light, carefully making his way into his own bed, and wriggling around to get comfortable. Richie takes his glasses off and lies down, turning to face Eddie, blurry and shadowed by the darkness and the distance.

“Night Eddie Spaghetti,” he says softly. Eddie tuts.

“Night Rich,” he says, and falls silent. When they first booked the room, Richie had thought the twin beds were probably a good thing. Nothing soothed a nightmare like waking up to see Eddie’s face right in front of his, snuffling and frowning into his pillow, but the urge to cross that invisible boundary between them had been getting so strong, especially since Eddie seemed so content to touch and be touched. 

But now this cramped twin bed feels huge and cold and empty, and Richie falls asleep trying desperately not to miss someone who’s three feet away.

***

Two days after the market, Richie wakes up to find Eddie’s bed already empty, and when he checks his phone, he finds a message explaining that Eddie’s gone to check out the hotel’s little gym.

He also has three missed calls from Steve.

Shit.

He drags himself out of bed, makes coffee and bites the bullet.

“What do you want Steve?” he says, as soon as Steve answers the call.

“Hi Steve,” comes the sarcastic reply. “Person who has put up with me for seventeen years and stuck with me through many tantrums and breakdowns. How are you? How is _your_ life?”

The wave of guilt threatens to crest again, but Richie knows Steve pretty well, and this is not his angry voice. Richie laughs a little.

“Yeah alright,” he says, “I know I’ve been a dick. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” says Steve airily, “this is a good call. I watched your videos, it’s good stuff! I wondered maybe if that was the point of the road trip and you just weren’t ready to tell me yet.”

For a second Richie has no idea what Steve is talking about, and then it hits him — _the hot-dog video_ — and he laughs for real this time.

“Steve you…you’re shitting me, right? Steve that was a joke! I was just…look, I was kind of mad at you and I just needed you off my back for a bit and…it was a dick move maybe, but they aren’t videos for the YouTube channel.” Richie laughs again at the thought, but Steve makes an enquiring noise.

“Why not?” he says simply, and Richie splutters over his coffee.

“Why not — Steve, it’s just me and my friend being stupid and eating lunch. Why would anyone want to watch that?”

“I told you before, what the videos are about isn’t the important thing. It’s not like this has to be your next serious career move, it’s just so people don’t completely forget who you are, or start the rehab, prison, abducted by aliens rumours again.”

Richie laughs, and considers for a second telling Steve which of the rumours is closest to the truth about his summer disappearance, but Steve barrels on.

“And they’re funny! Like I said, you’re funniest when you’re going unscripted anyway, and Eddie is funny too, and you’re definitely funniest when you’re playing off him. Your chemistry is great.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie says, “a childhood fighting monsters will do that for you.”

“I’m serious! Look, you’re travelling around with Eddie regardless right? And you were apparently going to be filming it all anyway—”

“Yeah but…just for our own benefit you know? Or to show our friends maybe.”

“Your incredibly famous friends? Who might also be persuaded into making an appearance?”

“Steve…”

“People will watch it Richie. They’re curious about what you’re up to now, and people are definitely curious about Eddie after he was all over Beverley Marsh’s Instagram and with all the speculation that he’s your boyfriend.”

“He’s not,” says Richie, uncomfortably.

“That’s not the point,” he says, “people want to know who he _is_. And...hey, maybe it’s none of my business, but from some of the things you guys said in the videos you sent me, I’m guessing Eddie just came out recently too?”

“That is definitely none of your business,” says Richie hotly. God, Eddie’s going to _kill him_. “How is that even relevant?”

“Don’t you think that’s a good focus for the show? A good thing to talk about? That not everyone figures this shit out when they’re a teenager?”

“Let me just check we’re on the same page,” says Richie. “You’re asking me and Eddie to film ourselves having a joint midlife crisis and post it on the internet for people to watch?”

“Well…” Steve trails off thoughtfully. “I’m asking you and Eddie to film yourselves _surviving_ your joint midlife crisis. I can hear you in my head making fun of me for this already but…don’t you think that’s a thing worth talking about? That sometimes you get a second chance at things? And sometimes it’s better? I don’t know exactly what you and Eddie have going on — and I’m not asking! But I watched those videos Richie, and if you’ve once been that happy in the past seventeen years then I haven’t seen it. Don’t you think people should? See that I mean?” 

Richie sighs heavily.

“I mean, I’d have to talk to Eddie about it.”

“Of course!” Steve says, enthusiastically grabbing on to the first thing that isn’t a flat _no_.

“And half the stuff from New York has Bev and Ben in it.”

“That’s Beverley Marsh and Ben Hanscom right?” Steve asks with interest.

“That’s them,” Richie says. 

“I still can’t believe you’re friends with Beverley Marsh,” he says. “She’s one of the most famous women in the country.”

A sudden image flashes into Richie’s mind of Bev with scruffy curls and grubby overalls, giving him a weary middle finger, and he grins.

“Yeah well…you didn’t know her at thirteen.”

“You need to talk to them too,” Steve says briskly. “If you want them to be in it they’ll probably have to sign something. And you and Eddie need to film something extra — just ten minutes to explain what you’re doing and who Eddie is. If you send me that and everything you have from New York, I’ll get Kelly to look at the editing—”

“Woah woah woah,” Richie shakes his head. “Eddie has to say yes first.”

“Well then talk to Eddie!” Steve says brightly, before hanging up and leaving Richie staring into his coffee, slightly shell-shocked.

He’s asked a lot of Eddie recently — to put his new life on hold, to travel the country, to make space for Richie back in his little world — and Eddie has gamely gone along with everything like they’re still a thirteen-year-old double act, when Eddie would gripe and lecture and fight but would never back down from doing anything Richie wanted them to do. But it’s been a long time since then; years and years and decades since people used to call them _RichieandEddie_ , like they were two halves of the same person.

He’s not sure how much more he can ask for.

***

“Eds?”

Richie elbows his way into the room, balancing three paper grocery bags in his arms and struggling to hold the door open with his hip. He hugs the bag with the fresh produce in it close to his chest, imagining Eddie’s face if his precious fruit gets bruised by Richie bouncing it across the floor, and lets the door slam shut behind him. He dumps the bags gratefully on the sideboard in their little kitchenette, and starts shoving things into cupboards, drawers and the mini fridge.

“Eddie?” He shouts again once all the groceries have been cleared away, leaning out onto the balcony and into their bedroom, both of which are deserted. The bathroom door is closed, and he knocks on it lightly with the back of his hand. There’s no answer, but when he gently pushes the door he finds it unlocked, and opens it the whole way.

Eddie’s sitting on the floor, leaning against the side of the bathtub, his toes pressed against the opposite wall. He’s staring intently at his slightly bent knees; his jaw is clenched and his cheeks are flushed and tear-stained. Richie eases the door closed again, and bends uncomfortably in the small space to sit down opposite Eddie, pressed close enough to him that he can feel Eddie shaking. He gently places a hand over one of Eddie’s bony ankles, and Eddie looks up at him.

“What’s going on?” Richie asks, and Eddie blinks at him slowly, releasing a tear to trail down his cheeks. “Nervous breakdown on the bathroom floor? A midlife crisis classic.” 

Eddie sniffs, but quirks a watery smile at Richie.

“I spoke to Myra,” he says, in a small voice. “She called me, she found out I left New York.”

“How?”

Eddie shrugs.

“I had to tell my lawyer, I suppose she might have told hers but…there’s pictures of us at the winter market with Stan and Patty. Myra’s not on Twitter but she’s probably seen them.” He wipes his face with the heels of his hands, tucked into his oversized college sweatshirt.

“You’re getting divorced Eddie, you didn’t rob a bank. You’re allowed to leave the state.”

“I know,” Eddie nods. “But I think…I think she’s realised I’m serious. I think she figured I’d have my little tantrum and then I’d go back after I’d got it out of my system. But now I’m in Georgia and…” He sniffs, but then his jaw tightens again fiercely. “I told her I wasn’t coming back and that she’s not supposed to contact me and she…she got really mad.”

Eddie curls in on himself defensively, his eyes wide and scared in his pale face, and it’s a side of Eddie that’s so familiar it stokes the anger rising in Richie’s chest.

“What did she say to you?” 

“Just…” Eddie shakes his head. “Just stuff. She’s known me a long time, she knows exactly how to get in my head, make me think I’m too weak to handle any of this, to be on my own.”

“You’re handling it fine,” Richie says. “And you’re not on your own,” he adds fiercely, and Eddie finally smiles for real.

“I know. Seeing pictures of me and my childhood sweetheart Richie Tozier probably isn’t bringing out the best in her,” he says, and Richie shuffles uncomfortably. Eddie pokes his toes into the side of Richie’s hip. “Hey, it’s not your fault. Don’t start that.”

“It kind of is,” he counters sulkily. “I can make a statement you know, about how we’re just...we’re not...”

“It wouldn’t make a difference,” Eddie sighs. “It’s not about you, it’s about me being...” He shifts uncomfortably, and Richie gives his ankle a gentle squeeze. “Remember I said she didn’t seem surprised when I told her I was leaving? Well, I was right. She already knew. She told me so.” 

“She did?”

“Yep, just then on the phone. She said, _I should have cut my losses when your mother told me about you, but I thought I could fix you._ ”

“Eddie, you don’t need to be…wait, your _mom_ knew?”

He fights with the instinct to suddenly let go of Eddie, to stop touching in case someone sees. Richie had hated Sonia Kaspbrak for a lot of things, and been hated in return, but she had looked at him sometimes not with dislike but with suspicion, as though she knew exactly what went on in Richie’s mind when he looked at her son. That chest-bursting feeling of affection and love, definitely, but also what felt at times like a bottomless pit of _want_. He’d wondered, sometimes, what Sonia said to Eddie about him when they were alone.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, and he looks away from Richie suddenly, his cheeks turning pink. “I…I had a boyfriend. In college.” 

“You did?” Richie stares at him, and Eddie keeps his gaze somewhere around his knees, but he nods. “Like a…like an actual boyfriend? Not just a guy you…you know… _experimented_ with?”

Richie had been that guy for more than one boy he had known at college, had let himself be an experiment or a bet or a joke, and had let himself get left behind when they had inevitably moved on to someone else. 

“No,” Eddie says. “We were together for…nine months maybe?”

“That’s a long time Eds, for college.” Richie swallows uncomfortably, swallows his jealousy and his dislike for this mystery boy from Eddie’s past, and the suddenly soft look on Eddie’s face. “You want to tell me about him?”

“I kind of already did,” Eddie says. “Remember I said I had an annoying friend who got the tattoo with me? He was my…ha…my annoying boyfriend.” Eddie frowns thoughtfully, like he’s trying to drag something to the surface of his memory. “We only really met because his name was Scott Kerrigan, and we got assigned project partners alphabetically. But…I don’t know…he was funny, and nice to me…” Eddie trails off, awkward and unhappy. 

“So what happened?” Richie asks, although it isn’t hard to guess. Eddie rolls his eyes.

“What do you think happened?” he says. “My mom found out.”

“And what? Banned him from the Kaspbrak residence?”

 _Wouldn’t have stopped me,_ Richie thinks, uncharitably perhaps. _It never stopped me, I used to climb in through your window, I used to help break you out, I’d have done anything…_

“She put herself in the hospital,” Eddie says quietly. “Took too many of her pain pills. I…I get it now, what she did. But at the time…it was all my fault you see, the stress of having a _queer_ for a son, and didn’t I love her, and didn’t I appreciate everything she’d done for me, everything she’d given up, and how could I shame her like that?”

His voice is oddly blank as he lists off this litany of horrors, and Richie lets go of Eddie’s ankle to awkwardly maneuver the small space with his lanky body, until he’s leaning against the bath with Eddie, putting a hand over Eddie’s knee instead. 

“So I did what I was supposed to do,” Eddie says, his gaze now fixed on Richie’s thumb moving in soothing circles over the fabric of Eddie’s jeans. “You know, as a good son. I apologized — I fucking _groveled_ — and I broke up with Scotty, and I moved off campus back home, and I quit the college track team and baseball team and I stopped talking to my friends. I just went to class and then came home to her.”

“But then…I mean, you’d had a boyfriend, you knew you liked guys. So…how did Myra happen?”

Eddie sighs.

“She lived next door to us in Brooklyn,” says Eddie. “When we first moved there, we were genuinely friends. We went to high school prom together. But then I went to NYU and she went to college out of state, and when she came back I’d moved for a bit and we just didn’t see each other for a few years. Then we met again at a high school reunion and…” he shrugs. “My mom loved her, I think it helped her believe that Scotty had just been…you know…a phase. And then she got sick — for real — and I knew that all she wanted was to see me get married — to a woman. And I imagined what she’d say to me on her deathbed if I didn’t, what she’d leave me with — she always made me feel like the most selfish person on the planet. So I proposed, and we got married — quickly — and my mom died just over a year later. Honestly, I never really thought about Scotty much until recently, I think I kind of forgot about him. Maybe in a regular trauma way rather than a clown trauma way. But the thing is—” Eddie frowns intently. “She really did love me, Myra, but she loved me the way my mom loved me. Like loving someone gives you the right to control them and smother them and… _own_ them, like you can wield that love over someone like a weapon. I was so afraid of being alone. And I did love her too — but the way I loved my mom, because I knew I was supposed to, and because I was afraid to look at all the reasons I didn’t. So I ended up thinking that maybe this is just what love is like. Maybe the kind of love you see in movies — like, butterflies, can’t-stop-thinking-about-you, want-you-all-the-time kind of love — maybe none of that is real. Maybe no one ever finds it and everyone’s just pretending. And then I ended up thinking, maybe some people do find that, but that’s just not the kind of love I’m meant for, or the kind I deserve. My mom — and Myra — always made me feel like I had to act a certain way, or that love could just be…taken back. And I’d forgotten you, all of you guys. I’d forgotten that there were ever people who loved me even when I wasn’t behaving the way I…the way I should,” he gives a watery laugh. “Even when I was being a little shit.” He sniffs, and wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sweatshirt. “I forgot love didn’t have to be conditional.”

God.

Richie presses his lips together, swallows, and nods.

_Be brave, be brave, be brave._

“I forgot that too,” he says quietly. “I had a…a boyfriend, about ten years ago now. Jacob. It was when I was still in Chicago, he was the assistant producer for a show I had a bit-part in. It wasn’t like…official, because obviously I wasn’t out and he wasn’t either, really, but it was the closest thing I’d ever had to an actual relationship. No one ever really stuck with me before him — oh, don’t get me wrong,” he jumps in as Eddie opens his mouth to speak. “I get why.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eddie,” he says. “Despite appearances, I’m not actually stupid. I know what I’m like.” He sighs in frustration when Eddie continues to stare at him blankly. “I’m not a person anyone can stand to be around full time.” Eddie immediately goes to argue, but Richie holds up a hand and shakes his head urgently. “Eddie don’t, you don’t need to pretend it’s not true. I know it is, it’s fine, I’ve…come to terms with it, or whatever.” Eddie closes his mouth, but continues to scowl at Richie mutinously. “But Jacob…he talked about it all the time, like he was always saying that no one else would put up with me, or talking about how lucky I was he was still around, and how I should be grateful. And it got to the point where I was saying that shit to myself you know? Like he’d do something that would make me mad, or sad, and I’d think about telling him how I felt, but then I’d be like, _what are you doing? Isn’t it enough he hasn’t left you yet, just keep your fucking mouth shut for once_.” This comes out with more venom than intended, and Eddie’s eyebrows twist in distress. Richie takes a deep, shuddery breath. “And he was always like…hinting that he would out me, if I didn’t do what he wanted.”

“Jesus…” Eddie breathes. “I thought he wasn’t out either?”

“Well…he wasn’t out in the industry, but he was out to his family, and some friends. At the risk of sounding like post-therapy Stan, he had a support network and I didn’t. And he always made me feel like it’d be worse for me, like I’d never handle it, even though logically I knew it’d be hard for him too.” He glances nervously at Eddie. “I know that sounds stupid.”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, “I can’t imagine finding out someone you love is actually manipulating you into feeling weaker than you are so they can maintain their control over you. What the fuck is that like?” He says this completely deadpan — an excellent Stan voice — and Richie laughs. “So what happened?” Eddie asks.

“We got into a fight about Steve,” he says. “Steve _hated_ him, even at the start when I thought we were happy, Steve hated him. And then Steve moved to LA and he was talking about me maybe moving out there too — for my career — but Jacob got it into his head that I was cheating on him with Steve, and I got angry and starting arguing back, which I’d never really done before, and I don’t think he really knew what to do. So he…” Richie hesitates, “he threw a glass at me.”

“ _What_?”

“Yeah…” Richie lets go of Eddie’s hand to lift the hair above his right ear, revealing the little tangle of scar tissue; Eddie swears under his breath. “So I panicked and left, and I had nowhere else to go so I ended up driving all the way out to LA to stay with Steve, because he was the closest thing I really had to a friend. So I told him what had happened and he just sat there and listened and eventually I said something like, _I should go back and apologize right, this was probably all my fault, I made him angry, I’m so fucking annoying_. I thought he was going to cry or something. And he just…kind of…didn’t let me go home I guess. I stayed with Steve for a while, and he helped me sell the apartment I had in Chicago and find work in LA.” He sniffs loudly. “But it’s like you said, I didn’t remember that there had ever been anyone else who had put up with me. I didn’t remember you guys.” 

He looks up from his knees to Eddie, whose lip is wobbling so much that Richie has to glance away again before he really breaks down. Then Eddie leans forwards and plucks the smeary glasses from his face, wiping them fastidiously on the hem of his sweater, giving Richie a minute to compose himself. When Eddie replaces the glasses and slides back into focus, he’s staring at Richie seriously.

“You know we never put up with you? You know that, right? The Losers I mean — we were never _putting up with you_. We loved you, we love you now. You’re not — well, okay, you _are_ annoying sometimes. So am I, I think that’s why the others left us alone so often, so we didn’t annoy anyone else,” Eddie says with a smiles, coaxing a weak laugh out of Richie. “We never didn’t want you around. I promise I have never once told you to shut up and actually meant it.”

“Ha,” says Richie, “I’ll totally hold that against you the next time you’re beeping me.” He sniffs and swallows, his breathing coming a little steadier. “I don’t think I really thought that, not all the time but…you know…on bad days. Plus, there is also the fact that I was gay and terrified that you’d all find out and hate me for that too.”

“Is that what you were afraid of? When we were kids? That we would all find out?”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “I mean, weren’t you?”

“No,” says Eddie, thoughtfully. “It definitely used the same fear against us — being gay, I mean — but in different ways. You were scared people would find out — that’s what the missing posters were about right? Because it’s what happened to people like us in Derry. What still happens,” he adds quietly, and Richie thinks of the boy beaten and thrown over the kissing bridge at the end of summer, the murder that had kicked it all off again. “But I hadn’t processed it enough in my head to even be at the point of finding that scary. I think I was more afraid of…of having it brought out to myself, where I couldn’t just ignore it or shove it away. That’s why the leper I guess, why disease, cause I was afraid of having to confront the real reason I was so afraid I was sick. Of course, being raised by a psychotic hypochondriac in the middle of the AIDs crisis probably didn’t help either,” he says bracingly. Richie laughs, and Eddie looks up at him, tilting his head slightly. “It never did it though — the clown I mean. It never actually outed you. Didn’t you ever think about that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not like it would’ve been hard, is it? All the time It spent yammering about truth or dare and it couldn’t find ten seconds to just say, _guess what kids, Richie’s gay_? Why be so fucking cryptic about it?”

“I dunno Eds, it was a clown monster from deep space, I never spent much time thinking about its motivations.”

“It knew us all really well, right? Knew everything we were afraid of, everything we hated about ourselves or our lives. Which meant, you were terrified we would hate you, but It knew we wouldn’t. It’s all very well to torture you with the idea of your friends hating you once they find out the truth, but It would have lost Its hold over you if it’d actually done it. If It had actually cut the bullshit and just said Richie’s gay, and then I went _actually, you know, on reflection, me too_ and Stan already knew because he’s psychic and terrifying and knows everyone’s secrets, and everyone else was just like, _okay then, cool_ …I mean, what does It do then?”

“I never thought about it like that.”

“In fact,” Eddie powers on, “if It had done that, you would have obviously cried and thrown up, because you haven’t actually changed that much in nearly thirty years—” he stops and smirks as Richie lifts one foot to kick at Eddie’s calf gently, “—but then we’d have all been fine with it and probably just killed the stupid clown right there. No _Pennywise 2: Return to the Sewers_ , just over and done with in the 80’s.”

“Are you saying that the power of our friendship would have — what — dissolved the clown on the spot?” Richie’s joking, mostly, but Eddie looks at him soft and serious.

“Didn’t it? Isn’t that what made us stronger than It, in the end?” He grins suddenly. “Friendship is magic, man.”

Richie bursts out laughing, digging Eddie in the ribs with his elbow and making him wriggle and fight in a way there isn’t really the space for with two grown men squeezed onto the floor of a small hotel bathroom.

“Well, it’s nice to know you made a whole risk assessment about my coming-out as a clown-traumatized kid Eds, but you’re twenty-seven years late with it. What kind of risk analyst are you?”

“I’m _not_ a risk analyst anymore,” Eddie says, looking solemn again. “I don’t even know who I am. Like…okay, so the person I’ve been for the last two and a half decades might have been fake, but at least I knew how to be that person. Who the fuck am I now?” he asks, morosely. 

“Just Eddie fucking Kaspbrak,” says Richie.

“Yeah,” sighs Eddie. “And what good is that to anyone?”

Richie, feeling suddenly daring, softly brushes the hair back from Eddie’s forehead, and strokes his thumb over the scar on his cheek.

“It’s all _I’ve_ ever needed you to be.” 

“That’s because you have very low standards,” Eddie says, but he presses in closer and leans his head against Richie’s shoulder. Richie takes a shaky little breath, and rests his cheek against the top of Eddie’s head, softly breathing in the scent of his hair and skin.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, until Eddie pulls away, staring up at Richie searchingly. “I’m not tired of you, you know that right? I’m with you full time, and I can’t imagine ever being tired of you.”

He sounds so sincere — and god, he could convince anyone of _anything_ with those eyes — but that’s something Richie can’t face looking at right now, so he grins bracingly and grabs Eddie by both hands, hauling them both to their feet.

“Well, let’s see if you’re still saying that once you’ve assessed the fruits of my solo grocery shopping trip.”

“If it’s nothing but Lucky Charms and Pop Tarts Rich, I’m gonna drown you in the toilet…”

***

The week passes more quickly than Richie would like, between an 80’s film festival at a local movie theatre, a cooking class that Richie and Eddie get thrown out of the fourth time they start yelling at each other and an impromptu hike with the Blum-Uris’ despite the fact that it’s _freezing_ and Richie keeps having to stop to catch his breath and Eddie freaks out every time he thinks he spots a snake. 

Stan and Patty are tolerant of the video camera, but more often than not they’re the ones filming and when Richie scans back through some of the footage from their time in Georgia, most of it is him and Eddie, teasing and bickering and laughing at each other. The thought of showing the Losers any of this footage was daunting enough, but watching his own face light up every time Eddie so much as glances his way has Richie wondering how he can possibly put any of this on the internet for the world to see.

He doesn’t have to, obviously. It’d be easy enough to just never mention it to Eddie, tell Steve Eddie had said no, and then carry on with their road trip as planned. But...well...there would definitely be something satisfying about being able to show the world that he’s doing okay, that he’s happy, finally. _Take that everyone who called me a fag loser on Twitter, I’m having fun with my kickass friends who love me and like having me around._

There’s a chance he could put it like that to Eddie, and Eddie would agree, but he doesn’t want Eddie to feel guilty, or obligated, or pushed into anything. He wants Eddie to want to do this with him, a little piece of their two-way mischief, a project they might have collaborated on as teeny little terrors back in Derry, ostensibly to annoy their friends or their parents or their teachers. Anything so that Richie could have Eddie to himself for a little while, without having to admit why he wanted it.

Why he wants it still. 

***

On their last night in Georgia they have dinner at Stan and Patty’s house. It’s an interesting glimpse into their lives; almost aggressively normal, tastefully decorated but not dull, artsy prints of birds decorating the yellow walls of the living room, splotchy paintings from their godchildren stuck to the fridge with touristy magnets. 

Richie knows Stan, is the thing, but this home, this space, this _life_ , doesn’t just belong to Stan. Patty is intertwined in all of it, and the very idea of finding someone outside of the Losers to love him is so alien to Richie, that the fact that Stan has done it seems like magic. Well-deserved magic definitely, but he can’t help but feel curious, to want to ask questions. He’s wanted to all week but there hasn’t been a clear opening, and he thinks that Eddie has been anticipating it and keeps cutting him off. But Richie needs to know. Part of it is pure curiosity, part of it is wanting to understand more about the life of grown-up Stan, but most of it is the fact that he thinks he might love Patty Blum-Uris, and this is the final piece of the puzzle that will turn that ‘might’ into a ‘definitely does’. 

“So, Patty,” he says, while sitting at the dining table, lingering over peach cobbler and ice-cream. Eddie, who is taking on an uncomfortably Stan-like ability to occasionally read Richie’s mind, narrows his eyes dangerously. Richie presses on regardless. “Your thoughts on the clown story?”

Eddie kicks him under the table, and Stan murmurs ‘Richie’ in a low, warning voice, but Patty just smiles benignly. 

“It was a hell of a story,” she says, nodding calmly. She does everything calmly, Richie thinks, which is nothing shy of a miracle when dealing with people like the three of them. Mellow contentment and guileless kindness pour out of her like unfiltered sunshine and when it lands on Richie, he feels himself warmed by it, and thinks Eddie does too. But when her attention shines on Stan, he _glows;_ lights up and relaxes in a way that Richie would never have guessed him capable of when he was a solemn, tense child.

Richie raises his eyebrows at her, and even Eddie is watching her carefully; he’s curious too, Richie knows he is. Patty shrugs.

“Honestly, it explained a lot. I mean, I’ve never met anyone else who didn’t remember their own childhood properly, or couldn’t really talk about where they’d grown up. I’ve never seen anyone else have nightmares like that.” She glances at Stan, who is watching her intently, but when she smiles at him he brightens a little. “Really it was nice to…to be able to identify the monster, in a way. Makes it less scary, to be able to give it a name and a face.” She looks over at Eddie. “Nice to know you threw a fence post through that face too,” she says, and Eddie flushes pink and frowns at her. 

“ _I_ didn’t kill It,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“No,” says Richie, annoyed. “But you figured out how to do it, and speared it through the face to save my stupid life. You only missed out on the actual heart-crushing because—” He cuts himself off, but the silence that follows isn’t awkward. Everyone at the table knows, everyone gets it, and Richie had forgotten that as well as being occasionally terrifying, it can be so comforting to have people really know you.

“Sorry,” Richie says eventually. “I just…I hate when you talk like you weren’t part of it, like you didn’t—” He stops when Eddie taps his foot against Richie’s under the table gently, and takes a deep breath. Then he smiles shakily. “See what you’ve gotten yourself into Patty?”

“Oh,” she says, beaming, “am I part of the club now?”

“You accepted the story, you believed in me, you believed in my friends,” Stan says seriously. “I think that makes you one of us.”

Stan and Patty sparkle at each other, and Richie loves them, but the urge to be obnoxious is too strong to resist. 

“One of us! One of us!” he chants, banging his hands on the table, as Eddie simultaneously does the exact same thing. Patty bursts into peals of laughter as Eddie pulls a face at him.

“Nerd,” Richie says, poking him in the dimple.

“Geek,” Eddie counters, jabbing him in the ribs.

“Weirdo.”

“Loser!”

“Aw,” Patty coos. “They’re so cute.”

Richie flushes a little, and pulls his hands away from Eddie immediately, but Stan just sighs heavily.

“Don’t,” he begs. “Don’t encourage them. They are not cute. I’ve been living with this since I was six, do you think _I_ think they’re cute?”

“I think you think we’re _adorable_ ,” says Richie, crushing his hands between his knees so he won’t reach out for Eddie again.

“You haven’t been living with us since you were six anyway,” says Eddie. “You forgot us for like twenty-five years.”

“And it was so peaceful,” Stan sighs dreamily.

“Well I like you,” says Patty, pulling on one of Stanley’s curls and letting it spring back into place. “I’m honoured to be part of the club.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” says Eddie. “We were called the Losers club for a reason.”

After they’ve finished eating, Patty goes into the kitchen with Eddie to make coffee, continuing a conversation about their favourite places in New York, and Stan and Richie end up in the sitting room. 

“How are you doing, Stan the Man?” Richie asks from his spot on the sofa. Stan curls his legs up underneath himself in a big armchair, and smiles.

“I’m good Richie,” he says, laughing softly when Richie gives him a serious look. “I really am! Some days are easier than others but…” he shrugs. “It’s like Patty said, in some ways it’s easier to handle being afraid of something you can put a name to, especially when it’s something I know my friends killed. It’s not… _over_. Maybe it never will be, you know? I’ll probably have nightmares the rest of my life, and maybe I’ll be in therapy the rest of my life. Maybe we should all be in therapy,” he says, giving Richie a pointed look, but he just laughs when Richie squirms, and doesn’t push. “It’s like I keep telling Eddie — maybe it’s not easy, but it’s worth it, to have each other back, right?”

Richie looks at Stan in surprise.

“That’s what Eddie keeps telling _me_ ,” he says, and Stan nods.

“I think it helps him to know we all feel like that,” he says, and Richie stares at him, baffled.

“Why?”

“Well, because of…” Stan looks at him, apparently confused, and then frowns. “Has Eddie never…have you guys never talked about what happened when…when me and him were…”

“Dead?” Richie finishes, because he knows that’s what Stan’s not saying. Stan nods sharply. “Not in any detail. Ghost quarry. Magic turtle. Swan dive off the cliff. I only know what you guys told us at the townhouse.”

Stan stares at Richie inscrutably, long enough to make him say, “what?” defensively. Stan frowns again.

“Nothing. I — don’t ask him about it. If he wants to tell you he will, I guess.”

“You literally cannot leave me hanging like that Stan,” Richie says, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. Stan stares at him, tense and guilty, and every anxious thought Richie’s ever had about Eddie and Stan’s resurrection threatens to bubble up into his throat and choke him. It’s always there, just under the surface of his skin, in the back of his mind — every time he looks at the miracle that is Eddie Kaspbrak, alive and well.

_There’s a catch, there’s gotta be a catch._

The panic must show on his face, because Stan reaches over the coffee table and grips Richie arm firmly.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” he says. “Eddie’s not going anywhere, we’re here to stay. If it was anything like that, I would tell you. It’s just…” He let’s go of Richie to run a hand through his curls thoughtfully. “He’ll tell you,” he says eventually. “When he’s ready, he will.”

Richie scowls at Stan, but nods sulkily. 

“Have you and Eddie talked, at all?” Stan says. 

“Yes,” says Richie, shortly. “We haven’t spent two and a half weeks in total silence. Eddie can’t spend two minutes in total silence.”

“Like you’re any better,” Stan scoffs gently. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I haven’t said anything to him.”

“Richie…”

“Listen,” says Richie earnestly. “I don’t know what there is to talk about. No, Stanley, I really don’t!” Richie insists, as Stan starts to interrupt. “I know how I…how I felt about him but now...” Richie shakes his head. “Why risk it if I’m not even sure what I want to say?”

“Wow,” says Stan gently.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just…when you were back in LA you wouldn’t even have a conversation with me about it. You literally begged me to drop it. But now you’re talking as though — hey, no…” He reaches across the table again as Richie turns away from him, shoving his hands under his armpits defensively. “Richie it’s not a bad thing, I just wondered what had changed.”

Richie’s about to say _nothing’s changed_ , but it’s a lie, and it’s an obvious one.

“I’ve been around Eddie,” he says instead. “He makes me feel…” God, he’s blushing again. He’s forty years old, this is _ridiculous_. “...better,” he finishes, lamely.

“Better about what?”

“Everything,” Richie admits, and then scratches the back of his head thoughtfully. “Myself, I guess. He makes me feel like it’s not ludicrous, the thought that he could…or that we…” He shrugs, and then shakes his head. “I’m still not telling him anything Stanley, but he makes me feel like I could. Like he wouldn’t hate me.”

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do that would make Eddie hate you,” Stan says gently, but there’s nothing Richie can say to that, because Stan doesn’t know the worst things he’s done. Fine, maybe Eddie wouldn’t hate him for having a crush on him when they were kids and maybe Eddie wouldn’t even hate him if, say, that crush hadn’t exactly gone anywhere in twenty-four years. But would he still be able to look Richie in the eye if he knew that Richie had been given a chance to save him from the scars, from a monster, from death, and instead he had done nothing? He could’ve saved Eddie’s life and instead he lay on the ground, looking up at Eddie’s familiar, gorgeous, beaming face and had wasted those few precious seconds wondering if Eddie had kissed him.

He’s saved from having to answer when Eddie and Patty bustle back in from the kitchen with a tray of coffee mugs.

“Eddie made yours Richie,” Patty says, handing a mug to Stan and them curling up next to him in the loveseat. “So I take no responsibility for it if it’s disgusting.”

“I’m telling you this is how he drinks it,” Eddie says, mirroring Patty by handing Richie a mug and sitting next to him on the sofa. He takes a sip of his coffee; it’s milky and too sweet, which _is_ just how Richie drinks it. He taps his mug against Eddie’s in silent thanks, and Eddie smiles. “See? Patty was gonna give you black coffee Rich, I told her I wasn’t gonna be an accessory to your murder.”

“Aw,” Richie coos, “Eddie Spaghetti, that’s so sweet.”

“If you’re getting murdered, I deserve to do it myself,” says Eddie. “For putting up with years of _Eddie Spaghetti_.”

After they’ve had their coffees and said their goodbyes and given each other lingering hugs, Richie pulls the camera out of his jacket and levels it at Stan and Patty.

“Say hi to the other Losers!” Richie chirps. “Tell them all you love us best, tell them you don’t know how you ever lived without us.”

“I'd get out of Florida while you have the chance, Mike,” Stan deadpans. “They’re heading your way next.”

***

Back at their hotel, Eddie heaves their now packed bags into the living room, ready for their early start in the morning, and then perches on the edge of his bed, levelling Richie with a suspicious glare.

“What’s with you?” he says, no heat in his voice, just mild curiosity.

“What do you mean?” Richie sits down on his own bed and faces Eddie. The room is small, just one little side table separates the two beds, and there’s only an inch of space preventing his knees being pressed against Eddie’s. 

Eddie pulls a face.

“Your brain’s been off in Richie-land since we left Stan’s,” he says, kicking at Richie’s sneakers with his toes. His socks are yellow today, with little lemons on them. Cute. “What gives?”

“I have to talk to you about something,” says Richie, and Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“Ominous,” he says.

“It’s nothing bad,” Richie says, “It’s just…okay so, you know Steve’s idea for me to make videos for a YouTube channel?” Eddie nods and hums, and Richie takes a breath. “So, he messaged me about it the other day, and I kind of got pissy with him and sent him a couple of our videos from New York as a joke,” he stresses, as Eddie’s eyebrows contract in alarm. “But…”

“But?” Eddie prompts.

“He thinks they’re funny,” Richie says quietly. “He thinks _we’re_ funny, like, together. He said they need editing, and if we’re going to put them online we need everyone else to sign something saying they won’t sue us if we make them look stupid on the internet — and you know if Bill is in any of them he’s going to make himself look stupid — but he thinks people would watch it and not hate it, and I don’t know if this is actually what I want to do with my career but right now I’m doing it anyway and it would be nice for people to watch something I’m the real me in and not hate it, and—” 

He stops as Eddie abruptly gets to his feet and puts his hands on Richie’s shoulders, gripping him firmly.

“Richie,” he says softly. “Stop panicking.”

Richie takes several deep breaths, and Eddie eventually removes his hands and sits down again, next to Richie this time. 

“Do you hate me for this?”

“No,” says Eddie, insistently. “I don’t hate you for anything, ever. I just…look, I get why Steve would want you to do this.”

“You do?” he says in surprise, and Eddie smiles.

“ _Yes_ , I think it’s a good idea. You said you didn’t want to go back on tour, and writing is hard right now. And you also said that being in LA was making you want to tear your own skin off in shreds. And this would be you…you know…being the real you and showing people that you’re…”

“That I’m what?”

“Happy,” says Eddie softly. “People might want to see that. People _should_ see that, don’t you think?”

“God,” says Richie, with feeling, “you and Steve are gonna get on so well it’s gonna make me puke.”

“Well, that worrying thought aside,” Eddie shifts awkwardly next to him. “Are you sure you want me to do this with you?” Richie turns abruptly to gape at him, and Eddie raises his hands defensively. “Rich, I’m not saying no! But like…I’m not famous, I’m not a comedian—”

“Steve literally said I was funnier with you than on my own.”

Eddie levels him with a stern look, and Richie wilts a little.

“Nothing’s really changed Eds, this is still our stupid teenage road trip just…”

“With an audience?” Eddie says, and Richie shrugs. “I dunno Richie, I wouldn’t send any of the losers all this footage to watch, and they actually know and love us. Why would anyone else watch us annoy each other for hours?”

“Well, as you said yourself, I am terribly famous,” he says, and he grins and relaxes a little when Eddie laughs and shoves him.

“You are a little bit famous,” he argues. “Right now you’re most famous for vomiting on stage.” 

“Well, there will probably be vomit,” Richie says. “Mike’s taking us to Disney.”

He expects Eddie to laugh, or to dismiss him or rib him for his weak stomach, but instead his smile turns oddly tender.

“Hah,” he pats Richie’s thigh lightly. “Do you remember the year after the clown, when we all went to the summer fair and you came off the Tilt-a-Whirl and—”

“Immediately blew chunks all over the feet of Stan’s very intimidating father?” Richie supplies, as Eddie bursts into peals of laughter. “Not until just then no, thanks for that little reminder.” He shoves at Eddie’s shoulder, pushing him away and down onto the bed, as Eddie shoves back. “I could totally have lived without digging that one out of the old memory bank.”

Eddie’s still laughing, pink-faced and teasing, but in truth the memory isn’t exactly traumatic.

It hadn’t been _fun_ to throw up right in front of an exasperated-looking Donald Uris, and he’d immediately turned away, mortified and dizzy and nauseated; would have fallen right onto the grass if he hadn’t been caught by a furious Eddie, shouting about how he _told_ Richie not to eat three hot dogs before going on the Tilt-a-Whirl, and how these old rides were a _death trap_ anyway, and how one day Richie would get himself _killed_ and Eddie would just laugh because it would be all his own fault. But the whole time Eddie was ranting he had slowly led Richie to a nearby bench, gently rubbed his back and allowed him to take little sips from Eddie’s own water bottle with his disgusting, vomity mouth, and Richie had thought he would be willing to throw up on a different grown-up every day if the end result was his head pillowed against Eddie’s shoulder, held solid and safe and close.

“So…?” Richie prompts, raising his eyebrows at Eddie imploringly. Eddie pulls a thoughtful face.

“Hmm...”

“Hmm?”

“Well…” Eddie shrugs. “It’s not like people are gonna stop taking pictures of us, or writing stupid articles about us or talking about us on Twitter. I suppose at least this way we get to…I don’t know…control the narrative.”

Richie snorts.

“You shoulda been a publicist Eds,” he says, and Eddie shoves him away, grinning.

“Shut _up_ , do you want me to agree with your stupid plan or what?”

“Really?” Richie sits up straight and adjusts his glasses. “Are you saying yes?”

Eddie’s trying to look serious, but his scarred cheek is already dimpling with the smile he’s trying to fight, and his eyes are soft and fond. It’s the same way he looked when Richie asked him to go on this trip in the first place, the same way he always looked at Richie when they were kids, and he was about to agree to go along with whatever nonsense Richie had planned for them.

A look that says maybe they’re still _RichieandEddie_.

A look that says, _the things I do for you_.

***

“Hi, I’m Richie Tozier and—”

“You can’t balance the camera on that Rich, it’s gonna fall.”

“It’s not gonna fall, stop fussing. I’m Richie Tozier and this…oh shit.”

“Told you so.”

  
*

  
“I’m Richie Tozier—”

“And I’m Eddie Kaspbrak…what?”

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

“I’m not looking at you like anything!”

“You’re doing that thing with your eyebrows!”

“What thing with — you’re gonna mess it up again! Stop laughing!”

“Stop making me laugh! Ah fuck it…”

  
*

  
“I’m Richie Tozier—”

“And I’m Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“And you’re about to start watching our joint mid-life crisis.”

“Really? Is that how we’re describing it?”

“Eds, I can’t _wait_ to be your midlife crisis.”

“I’m gonna smother you with this pillow…”

“Promises promises — ow!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time - Mike, Christmas and a visit to the Toziers!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	7. A Comfortable Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiles up at him shakily and for a second Richie genuinely thinks she’s going to cry, but then she sniffs gamely and passes him over to Went.
> 
> Richie hesitates for a second, tempted to turn back to his mom and ask her what he’s done this time to make her look at him like that, but Went seems to understand, wrapping Richie up in his arms and hugging him tightly.
> 
> “She’s fine Richie, she’s just glad you came.” Went gives him a final squeeze and then releases him in time for Richie to watch Maggie stop in front of Eddie. He’s been busy dragging their bags from the car but he plants both suitcases onto the damp grass and gives her a tentative smile. She puts her hands on his cheeks, holding his face like she’s searching for answers in his expression. Her face is serious, and Richie thinks suddenly how strange it must be for them to realise they had forgotten the boy who had all but lived at their house for the better part of a decade, without the context of magic clown amnesia to explain it. 
> 
> “Eddie Kaspbrak,” she sighs, and then beams at him. “Didn’t you grow up handsome?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warnings this time but...it's been a long time since I read the clown book and I don't remember whether there was a wealth of Tozier relatives or not, so I made them up :)
> 
> Also, here is my Christmas chapter, just in time for spooky season, which gives you a good idea of my general planning/time-management skills.

_I've always lived like this_

_Keeping a comfortable distance_

_And up until now_

_I had sworn to myself that I'm content_

_With loneliness_

_Because none of it was ever worth the risk_

_But you are the only exception_

_The Only Exception - Paramore_

**Lampy** @lampy Never in my life did I think I’d end up finding Richie Tozier funny. What even is reality?

**GoingDownNow** @dandan “Richie, I’m not having a midlife crisis I have anxiety, life is an ongoing crisis” Eddie is so relatable

**HoHoHope** @hohohope I am an Eddie Kaspbrak fan first and a Richie Tozier fan second. Sorry, it’s a whole new era.

**RichieLives** @ellabella anyone else lowkey disappointed that Eddie isn’t Richie’s bf? I thought they were kinda cute…

Mike’s friends turn out to be a strange mix of people — academics, librarians, writers and conspiracy theorists — but by the time they’ve been in Florida for a couple of days, even Eddie doesn’t have a word to say against them.

“I never _said_ they were a cult,” he says, scowling as Richie and Mike both crack up.

They’re spending the day at the small museum Mike’s been volunteering at, sticking Mike in front of the camera and making him act as a tour guide; explaining the exhibits, conducting an interview with the curator and answering all the questions that Richie and Eddie can think of — both pertinent and dumb — with enthusiasm and humour. He seems almost giddy with excitement at showing them this life he’s building for himself, and Richie _has_ to keep asking dumb questions and making stupid jokes or he might cry thinking about how different Mike looks after just a few months away from Derry, like a man reborn. He’s dressed like a stylish grandpa, in an ivy green blazer and cords, and still manages to look like he’s just stepped off a catwalk.

“You definitely implied it,” Mike says with a grin. They’ve stopped in the museum cafe for lunch, but the camera is still running, standing on a professional little tripod Eddie bought after it kept falling off various improvised perches.

“I seem to remember you saying something about Mike being kidnapped and sold to vampires,” Richie says, and Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“I’m pretty sure Florida had zombies a couple of years ago, it wouldn’t fucking surprise me,” he says, making Richie snort with laughter and Mike give a begrudging nod. Their server — a high school kid in an apron patterned with cave paintings — appears suddenly to place three drinks and three burgers in front of them and Eddie immediately grabs for a coffee the size of his head.

“When did you order _that_?” Richie asks, snatching the mug — which matches the server’s apron — out of his hands.

“When you were distracted by the dinosaur-themed kid’s menu,” says Eddie, snatching it back.

“Eds, if you drink that entire coffee you’re going to vibrate onto another plane of existence,” he says. Eddie continues to sip it without looking at him. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Oh, I heard you, I just figured you must be talking to someone else seeing as how _that isn’t my name_.”

Richie sighs sharply.

“I’m terribly sorry His Royal Majesty Prince Edward the Tiny and Hyper—ow!” Richie laughs and cringes away as Eddie flicks his cheek with his sharp little fingers.

Eddie slurps from his coffee obnoxiously, and a small wrestling match breaks out over the mug, which Richie wins but pretty much instantly regrets when he takes a victory gulp.

“Oh _God_ , it’s like battery acid, how do you _drink_ this?”

Eddie takes the mug back with a smug smile.

“You know I drink it black, I don’t know what you were expecting,” he says, and turns to Mike, ignoring the fact that Richie’s tongue is dissolving. “Anyway, I think your friends are nice, I just—”

“—thought they might be Satan-worshippers?” Richie interrupts, after washing away the evil in his mouth with several gulps of soda.

“Cannibals?” Mike adds.

“Organ-harvesting pirates?”

“I was just _worried_ about you,” Eddie snaps, lightly punching Mike’s arm. “I won’t fucking do it again. Get murdered, see if I care.”

“He said caringly, while caring a lot,” Mike says with a grin. Eddie scowls and Mike relents, wrapping an arm around Eddie and squeezing. “I know you worry about us Eddie and I appreciate it. I just don’t want you to completely ruin your blood pressure over it. They’re good people.”

“I know,” Eddie admits with a sigh. “I’m really glad you’re having a good time down here.” 

They settle down for a while to start eating, and Richie peels back the top of his burger to inspect its contents, pulling a face when he spots the giant slice of tomato peeking out from under the lettuce. He plucks it out and before he’s even had time to think about what he’s doing, holds it out to Eddie, who is already holding out a pickle slice in exchange. They stare at each other for a second, and then Mike bursts out laughing.

“How have you two literally not changed _at all_?”

*

They’re only staying in Jacksonville for a few days before moving on to spend the holidays with Went and Maggie in Tampa, and Mike has _plans_. They visit several museums, attend an art exhibition of one of Mike’s friends, and take a hike (seriously, why are all of Richie’s friends obsessed with _hikes?)_ in the National Park that Richie thinks is probably going to be the death of him but does end up with a pretty spectacular view, even if Richie spends the entire way back wheezing like thirteen-year-old Eddie when he couldn’t get to his inhaler quick enough.

On their second-to-last night in the city, they spend the evening in one of Mike’s favourite bars, casually sharing pizzas and pitchers of beer. The place is nice but sort of moody-looking; dimly lit and decorated with blue Christmas lights that twinkle in a lazy rhythm and send cerulean waves of light rippling across the room. It’s soothing, almost oceanic, and Richie can’t stop glancing down to his left to watch the play of shadows across Eddie’s angular face.

“You guys spending the holidays with the Toziers then?” Mike says.

“That’s the plan,” says Richie, as Eddie nods and fussily cleans pizza grease from his fingers with a wet-wipe he’s produced from somewhere. “We’re going to stay until New Year’s at least, then figure out where we’re going next from there.”

“What about you?” Eddie asks. “You staying here for Christmas?”

“No...” Mike hesitates a little. “No, I was going to but then...I’m heading to LA in a couple of days.”

Richie nods; that makes sense. With Audra still in San Francisco, Eddie had already been worried about the fact that Bill was set to be alone in LA for the holidays.

“You just staying for Christmas or you going to stick around a while?” Richie asks. “Me and Eds will probably be back in LA by the end of March.”

Mike shrugs.

“I’m not sure. I don’t really know what I want to do long term and LA is as good a place as any to stay and try and figure that out.”

“I am glad you’ll be there for him,” Eddie says. “He sounded a bit miserable the last time I spoke to him.”

“Yeah, he’s not doing great,” Mike nods.

“We’re three out of four on failed Loser marriages,” Richie says. "I hope Stan and Patty aren't cursed too."

Eddie pulls a face.

“I think they're safe," he says. "Anyway, it's different for Bill, compared to me and Bev,” he says. “It’s not like Audra is a bad person, she’s just...not who he really wanted.”

They all exchange an awkward glance, and Richie rolls his eyes.

“We’re dancing around the fact that she looks exactly like Bev, right?” he says, and Eddie gives a humourless little laugh.

“Guess he never really got over his first crush,” he says. Richie stares down at him, the lights above them giving an ethereal blue hue to his dark hair and dark eyes. He’s absently tearing his napkin into little squares and lining them up in front of him on the table, and Richie feels a rush of affection for him so strong his brain switches off for a second.

“Does anyone?” he says softly. Eddie doesn’t reply, but when Richie looks up from the side of his face, Mike is looking at him with something like sympathy. Richie immediately withdraws his arm from where it’s resting on the back of their bench, inches from Eddie’s shoulders, and clamps his hands around his glass again. Mike’s face softens even further, and Richie feels the first tugs of annoyance in his chest; at Mike for pitying him, at his own fucking _mouth_ that runs without ever letting his brain engage first, at Eddie, even, for being so goddamn oblivious to the way Richie looks at him, the way Richie’s always looked at him, the fact that he’s absolutely, hopelessly—

“Richie?” Eddie pokes him gently with his elbow, and Richie jumps. “What do you think?”

“What?” Richie blinks at him. “Sorry Eds, I was miles away. Reminiscing about the night your mother made an honest man out of me.”

Mike laughs and Eddies shoves him away lightly.

“Don’t be a dick, _Dick,_ ” he says, with a little grin. “I was asking if you’re ready to leave.”

Their pitchers are empty and their plates have been cleared and Richie’s head is starting to feel a little hazy, so he nods and stands, and they make their wobbly way to the door.

Richie opens his eyes the next morning, and immediately regrets it, along with everything he drank last night, coming to Florida in the first place and possibly ever being born. His brain is definitely floating in a pool of stale beer, sloshing around the inside of his skull and making his eyes feel like they’re about to be forced out of their sockets with the pressure. He sits up gingerly and his stomach starts with the acrobatics; he clenches his jaw and swallows.

Eddie appears in the bathroom doorway, looking blurry around the edges since Richie’s currently missing his glasses. There’s no mistaking the shit-eating grin on his face though.

“Need to barf?” he says, and Richie throws up a tired middle finger. He looks around blearily, checking the bedside table and then patting around in the bedcovers to try and find his glasses, but Eddie bends down and retrieves them from the floor, sitting down on the end of the bed and handing them over with a look of fond exasperation. He swims into focus, looking a little sleepy and rumpled in his shorts and sweater, but definitely better than Richie feels.

“You look fine,” he says, resentfully. “You drank the same amount as I did and you’re half a foot shorter than me, how do you look fine?”

“I’m _four inches_ shorter than you,” Eddie bites back. “And I’m fine because I drank water and took some Advil before I went to sleep, instead of passing out in my own drool like you.”

Richie opens his mouth to argue, but then Eddie hands over a bottle of water, two painkillers and a travel mug.

“Did you go out on a coffee run?” he asks, and Eddie nods. “You’re an angel, you know? A sweetheart. My best ever friend, the genuine love of my—”

He shuts up when a cushion hits him in the face, but Eddie’s eyes are gleaming.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Rich,” he says. “I have therapy this morning.”

“Okay,” says Richie, with a nod. Eddie had been keeping up with his therapy appointments over Skype while they were on the road, “so as not to derail his progress” as Stan had said when they were discussing it in Georgia.

Eddie is looking at him expectantly.

“Which means you have to leave the room,” he says eventually, and Richie groans.

“You mean I have to get up? Do things? Use my legs, _put on pants_?”

“Yep,” says Eddie, with a full-on wicked grin spreading across his face. “Mike is taking you for a bracing early morning walk on the beach.”

Richie thinks that he’ll be begging for death by the time they climb out of the Escalade and make their way onto the seafront, but in the face of the wind blowing in off the ocean, he actually feels a little more alive. The sky is blessedly overcast; the sun hidden behind soothing goose-feather clouds and a soft mist hangs over the water.

Mike also looks a bit like he might have forgotten his water-and-Advil bedtime routine, and he seems less invested in a bracing walk and more in the mood to sit in the sand and share the coffee and pastries he’s brought with him.

“So,” says Mike, after fifteen minutes of companionable silence. “You’re having a good time?”

“Yeah,” says Richie. “Yeah we are.”

Mike nods seriously, hugging his coffee to his chest and staring out to sea, looking like a shot in an artistic cologne ad.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I’m glad you’re both happy. Eddie...” His mouth twists in a little expression of displeasure. “We’ve spoken quite a lot since Derry and I was kind of worried about him.” He turns to Richie, his smile back in place. “I knew he’d be fine once the two of you were back together though.”

“I—” Richie chokes slightly on his coffee. “What?”

“Come on,” says Mike, grinning now. “I may not have spent a lot of time around people for the past two and a half decades, but I’m not _stupid_.”

His smile is soft, teasing, and Richie closes his eyes for a moment while he forces away the urge to snap at Mike. When Eddie had died and Richie had fallen to pieces, Mike and Ben had been the ones to drag him away from Eddie’s body, shouting and screaming about how it wasn’t too late, they could still help him, they couldn’t just leave him. Really, what he’d meant was, _if we have to leave him, then just leave me with him_ , and he thinks Mike and Ben knew that. There had been a tiny, awful mustard seed of hatred for the both of them in Richie’s heart for a little while after Derry, and the thought that had Ben and Mike had fought so hard to drag him out of Neibolt not because they didn’t care about Eddie, but because they _did_ care about Richie was the only thing that had eventually allowed him to cut it away before it really had a chance to take root.

It probably means that Mike also knows...well... _knows_. He knows what Stan and Patty, Bev and Ben and probably Bill all already know – what Richie knows, even, if he’s honest with himself, if he’d just let himself admit that he’s—

“It’s alright Richie.” Mike puts a hand on Richie’s back and starts moving in gentle circles, and Richie releases a slow, shivering breath. “I get it,” he says softly, and he slides his arm over Richie’s shoulder and Richie leans against him, and they both sit and stare out at the endless, misty ocean. 

The last thing they do before Mike has to fly out to LA is go to Disney. This time Richie listens to Eddie and they save their snack break for _after_ they’ve let Richie drag them onto Space Mountain, which means the whole day is vomit free. If Richie exaggerates his queasiness afterwards so that Eddie will rest his cool hands on the back of Richie’s neck and softly press his thumbs against the tension there well, even a weak stomach has a silver lining.

***

They finally make it to the Toziers on Christmas eve, and Maggie and Went come out of the house to greet them. The air is cool and fresh, the watery sunlight illuminating the dew-sprinkled grass until it sparkles like the novelty snowmen and decorative reindeer that litter the front yard. They both look early-morning dishevelled; Went is stubbly-faced and bleary-eyed and Maggie’s usually carefully styled curls have a Richie-like air of un-brushed chaos around them. She’s still wearing her housecoat and a pair of fluffy Christmas slippers; Richie is just gearing up to tease her about them when he’s dragged into a desperate hug. She clings to him in silence for a moment and her voice is suspiciously wobbly when she eventually pulls away to say, “It’s nice to see you Richie.” She smiles up at him shakily and for a second Richie genuinely thinks she’s going to cry, but then she sniffs gamely and passes him over to Went.

Richie hesitates for a second, tempted to turn back to his mom and ask her what he’s done this time to make her look at him like that, but Went seems to understand, wrapping Richie up in his arms and hugging him tightly.

“She’s fine Richie, she’s just glad you came.” Went gives him a final squeeze and then releases him just in time for Richie to watch Maggie stop in front of Eddie. He’s been busy dragging their bags from the car but he plants both suitcases onto the damp grass and gives her a tentative smile. She puts her hands on his cheeks, holding his face like she’s searching for answers in his expression. Her face is serious, and Richie thinks suddenly how strange it must be for them to realise they had forgotten the boy who had all but lived at their house for the better part of a decade, without the context of magic clown amnesia to explain it. 

“Eddie Kaspbrak,” she sighs, and then beams at him. “Didn’t you grow up _handsome_?”

Richie bursts out laughing as Eddie flushes bright red, but allows himself to be pulled into a hug as well, and both of them are swept into the house.

Richie’s only visited his parents in Florida a dozen or so times over the ten years they’ve been down here, so this house isn’t exactly home for him, but it’s definitely _homey_. It’s almost reminiscent of their house back in Derry, decorated in the same colourful style Maggie had always favoured, with fresh flowers on every surface and bold, abstract art prints on all the walls. The high-ceilinged sitting room is dominated by a towering Christmas tree festooned with lights and several familiar, handmade ornaments from various stages of Richie’s childhood. There are photographs too, scattered throughout the house, on walls and in frames on the ornamental bookshelf, of Richie through the years. Eddie has a good laugh when he stops to examine them.

“Oh man,” he says, holding up a posed school photo of Richie aged around eight. “Your glasses used to literally be half your face.”

“Yeah well,” Richie looms over Eddie’s shoulder to look at the picture, “your eyes are still half of yours.”

Eddie jabs him in the ribs with an elbow, but carefully replaces the picture frame on the shelf, and gives it a fond little smile before turning away. Richie stares at his eight-year-old self — beaming at the camera, all glasses and teeth — and wonders if there are any photos of all seven of them still in existence. They spent a lot of time that summer shoving each other into the little photo booth at the Capitol, and he’s sure one of them had a Polaroid at one point — Stan, maybe. He makes a mental note to ask his parents before they leave.

They take their suitcases up to the guest room and then head back downstairs, and they’re ushered into the conservatory for breakfast. Richie is weirdly nervous. He’s never brought a boyfriend home to his parents — or a girlfriend for that matter — but this is almost what he imagines it would be like, he’s so anxious for them all to get along. His parents had loved Eddie when he was a kid, and he knows Eddie had loved Went and Maggie too, but that was a long time ago. Almost thirty years is long enough to change everyone completely. He had warned both of them on the phone a couple of days ago that certain topics would be off-limits, but he’s still on edge waiting for one of them to forget and accidentally mention Eddie’s divorce, or his job, or his _mother_.

But as they sit around the table drinking Maggie’s fancy coffee, Eddie fits back into the Tozier family as easily as he did when they were little kids, eating Froot Loops or Lucky Charms at the breakfast table after a sleepover, when Richie occasionally had the fleeting thought that the house always seemed so empty once Eddie left. They talk about their time in New York and Georgia, catch Maggie and Went up with the current lives of the other Losers and reminisce about their various misadventures as children until the weight of twenty-four years apart seems to melt away, like Eddie’s been part of the family the whole time.

After breakfast, Maggie brings out her list of chores that need to be done to prepare for the influx of other Tozier relatives tomorrow and Richie can tell by the set of her mouth that she’s shifting into full drill-sergeant mode. He tries to subtly catch Eddie’s attention, see if there’s any way he can communicate the thought _let’s get out of here before we end up spending the day folding napkins_ with just his eyes, when Eddie pipes up—

“What do you need us to do?”

“Oh, that’s alright Eddie sweetheart,” Maggie says, waving a hand at him airily. “We’ve got everything covered. Why don’t you and Richie go find something fun to do for the day?”

Richie’s already halfway to standing, ready to drag Eddie out of the house before he can give away their freedom, but keeping up with Eddie Kaspbrak is hard at the best of times, let alone first thing in the morning.

“No way!” Eddie says hotly. “We’re not just going to let you do everything. What’s on the chore list?”

“Suck-up,” Richie mutters, but Maggie _beams_ at Eddie so brightly that he blushes and now Richie can’t argue with anything he says, not when he’s all cute and flustered. Maggie drags Eddie off to the kitchen and Richie gets roped in to helping Went add even more lights to the front of the house, which seems like major overkill given that Richie is sure the Tozier residence can already be seen from space.

“What level of clan attendance can we expect tomorrow?” he asks, after about half an hour of him and Went sword fighting with plastic candy-canes and making the decorative snowmen tell rude jokes in stupid voices. Richie’s trying to hang a string of lights around the top of the porch, standing up on his tiptoes to hook the string around the decorative iron frame of the roof.

“You struggling there, little guy?” says Went with a grin, taking the string of lights out of Richie’s hand and reaching past him to easily loop it around the metal fixture.

“You’re two inches taller than me!” he says, and then frowns. “Wow, is this what it feels like being Eddie?”

“If it was you and Eddie doing this, he’d have to sit on your shoulders,” says Went with an innocent, old-man chuckle, apparently unaware of what an interesting image he’s just conjured in Richie’s mind. “And I’d say we’ll be at about a sixth of the clan tomorrow, it’ll be New Year’s everyone will have to wear a nametag.”

“I have an aunt and two cousins on Mom’s side and the Toziers are like a small country,” Richie says, and Went hums in agreement, but when Richie looks over at him, his expression is serious.

“You nervous?” he asks, and Richie hesitates for a moment, and then nods. “It’ll be okay,” says Went, in the same voice he used to use when Richie was a kid. _It’ll be okay_ , said not like a bland reassurance or a way to brush off the problem, but said like a promise. _It’ll be okay, and if it isn’t, I’ll fix it._ “I know it’s been a while since you’ve seen everyone and I know...I know it’s been a weird few months for you. But I promise, the worst you’re going to have to deal with is a bit of well-meaning nosiness about you and Eddie.”

Richie’s just trying to think of a way to joke this off when the front door opens and nearly sends Went flying, which is a useful distraction, until Maggie stomps out into the front yard to examine their handy-work with a critical eye.

“Are you boys not finished yet?” she scolds. “Eddie’s cleaned the conservatory, set the dining table for tomorrow and _now_ he’s helping me in the kitchen.” She casts an unfriendly eye on Richie, but the corner of her mouth is twitching. “You’re lagging behind on which of you I like best.”

“You _always_ liked him best,” Richie whines obnoxiously, pouting at her until she gives in and laughs, shoving him away affectionately.

“Come on, chop chop,” she says, turning away from them and into the house again. “I want these lights finished in ten minutes!”

He exchanges a weary look with Went, but they stop horsing around and finish the lights, and Richie heads inside to see if he can find any other jobs to do that might pacify his mom and stop her disowning him and adopting Eddie instead. He passes through the dining room and stops for a second to admire the military precision with which Eddie has lined up decorative candlesticks and little bundles of holly, and then finds both him and Maggie in the kitchen. Maggie is halfway to climbing into the fridge, muttering to herself and occasionally consulting her list, and Eddie is sitting at the island in the middle of the room, focused on a small pile of yellowing papers, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Richie pours two mugs of coffee from the pot on the sideboard and sits down opposite Eddie, sliding one of the mugs over to him and gentle kicking at his ankles to get his attention. 

“Hey Rich,” he says absently, not looking up from whatever he’s reading, and Richie frowns a little. Having Eddie right in front of him but looking at something else is just unacceptable, so he goes to steal the little pile of papers away from him, when he looks at them properly for the first time, and gasps theatrically.

“Mother!” he says, in a scandalised voice, turning to stare at Maggie’s back. “Have you given an outsider access to Grandma Tozier’s collection of recipes and/or spells?”

“No,” she says, finally emerging from the fridge. “I didn’t give them to an outsider, I gave them to _Eddie._ You've been friends since you were six, he's basically part of the family.”

Eddie finally looks up to give Richie a smug smile, and then sticks his tongue out, but the words _Eddie Tozier_ suddenly appear, fully formed, in Richie’s mind, so he buries his blushing face in his coffee mug to stop the words jumping out of his traitor mouth.

Maggie allows them a five-minute coffee break, and then she’s back to assigning chores again. Richie is supposed to be rolling dough for gingerbread, but the task has some serious competition for his attention. Eddie isn’t a natural cook, having had a distant and vaguely hostile relationship with food for most of his life, but he’s focused and detail-oriented and so good with his hands that Richie can’t even watch him chopping vegetables (quickly, into perfectly equal pieces, _without even looking_ ) without getting a bit hot under the collar, and after the fifth time he has to annoy Eddie to distract himself from staring too closely at his bony wrists, Maggie banishes him from the kitchen.

Thanks in no small part to Eddie’s ability to complete tasks in half the time it takes an ordinary human, they finish everything on Maggie’s list before dinner, and as they make their way up the stairs to the guest room that evening, Richie sighs dramatically.

“I’m definitely going to be down two parents by New Years,” he says. “They’re going to leave me on the doorstep of a church wrapped in blankets and move you in instead.”

“What are you talking about?” Eddie zips between the bedroom and the en-suite, apparently brushing his teeth, getting changed and meticulously applying moisturiser to his face all at the same time.

“Will you...God, keep still!” Richie throws himself dramatically on to the end of the bed. “You’re like Tigger on speed, stop _doing_ things.”

A snuffly, spluttery laugh comes from the en-suite, but when Eddie emerges he’s not wielding a toothbrush anymore, and the bed dips slightly as he sits down next to Richie. He keeps his gaze fixed on his hands, his fingers twisting together in his lap.

“I just want them to like me,” he says softly. “They did when I was a kid — I think — but I’ve got twenty-four years to make up for.”

The screwball sweetness of this — the _Eddie-ness_ — is enough to have Richie’s chest aching a little, and he puts a tentative arm around Eddie’s shoulders.

“Well...mission fucking accomplished man,” he says. “Expert-level parent pleasing.”

“Oh good,” Eddie says. “At least I know the childhood trauma is good for something.”

This pulls a shocked bark of laugher from Richie’s chest, and the ache seems to go with it as Eddie glows a little, the way he always does when he manages a good laugh out of Richie. Eddie plants a hand on Richie’s thigh and uses it as leverage to stand up, tugging Richie to his feet as well so he can pull the covers down and climb into the bed. Richie just watches for a second, watches him snuggle down the way he always does, covers right up to his chin, before he throws them back again and pats at the mattress next to him.

“Get _in_ doofus, it’s cold.”

Richie leaves the reading lamp on as he lies down next to Eddie, and it wraps them safely in a little cocoon of golden light, throwing the rest of the room into soothing shadow. Eddie looks up at him with ink-pool eyes.

“Are _you_ okay?” Eddie strokes Richie’s ankle softly with his foot, the point of contact an intimate lightning strike that sends prickly static racing over Richie’s skin. “I know why I’m being a squirrelly weirdo but...you seem kinda on edge too?”

Eddie’s voice is gentle and undemanding, and Richie thinks if he brushes it off or makes a joke Eddie will probably let him, but these days he’s trying to be braver about stuff like this.

“I forgot them,” he says, eventually. “A bit. Not the way I forgot all of you guys, I didn’t forget they existed but...they were good parents, you know? Especially for Derry, when half the adults literally didn’t give a shit about the list of missing kids.”

“They were really good parents,” Eddie agrees. “They still are, they obviously love you to death Rich.”

Richie sniffs, but swallows the tears down painfully. He’s on a promise to himself not to get weepy until Christmas day at the earliest.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like, some of the memories that started coming back were memories of them. Just stupid things really, like my mom putting my fucking...school reports on the fridge and my dad practising voices with me and...you remember my birthdays when we were kids? If it was on a weekend they used to let everyone stay over, but if it was during the week they didn’t want to fight four little shits into going into school in the morning. Well...three little shits and Stan, I guess. So, if it was in the week, I could only have one friend stay over and it was always—”

“Me,” Eddie supplies, with a little smile.

“Yeah, which was stupid, because if it had been Stan or Bill I would have been way less giddy and annoying about it.”

“Really?”

“Pfft, don’t pretend to be innocent,” he scoffs, booping the end of Eddie’s nose obnoxiously. “You said yourself you were the one who got me all riled up.”

“Yeah, s’true,” Eddie says sleepily. He closes his eyes, and Richie can feel himself drifting.

“In the morning,” he says softly, “they used to buy us breakfast from the little bakery, remember?”

Eddie nods and hums softly.

“Hot chocolate and donuts,” he supplies.

“You got strawberry,” Richie says, closing his eyes.

“And you got toffee,” Eddie says, and snuggles a little closer to Richie. Moving carefully so as not to jostle him, Richie slides his glasses off and places them on the bedside table and then pulls the little cord to the reading lamp, plunging them into darkness, and falls asleep to the sound of Eddie snuffling against his shoulder.

Christmas morning starts off nice and relaxed.

Eddie pokes him awake around eight-thirty, and Richie is quick to remind him of their promise to each wear the ugly Christmas sweater the other had secretly chosen _for the entire day, Eddie_. Eddie is dutifully grumpy about his garishly-coloured argyle sweater featuring decorative plates of spaghetti and meatballs, but Richie is genuinely in love with the festive turtle design on his.

They have an early morning Face Time call with the other Losers; Mike and Bill looking bleary-eyed and grouchy at being ordered to wake up three hours earlier than usual, Stan and Patty who are unironically wearing matching pyjamas and Ben and Bev, who kind of take over the entire call when Bev lifts her left hand to the camera to show off the gleaming emerald on her ring finger.

Then he and Eddie have French toast and coffee in the conservatory with Went and Maggie, swapping silly little gifts and reminiscing about Christmases from when they were kids, until the clock on the wall chimes for ten, and an expression of slight panic suddenly settles over Maggie’s face. Relaxation time is apparently over.

Eddie is roped back into the kitchen with Maggie and after helping Went give the sitting room a cursory tidy, Richie finds himself relegated to the front door to start greeting their guests. Which seems unfair given that he hasn’t seen most of these people in the better part of a decade, but ends up going so smoothly that by the time Grandma Tozier turns up last at just after twelve, Richie genuinely wonders what he was worried about.

It’s a squeeze to fit the four of them plus a grandma, three aunts, two uncles and four cousins around the dining table, and Richie finds himself pressed elbow-to-elbow between his mom and Eddie. Dinner is loud and rowdy and most of the family are very interested in Eddie and their new show, and the two of them spend a lot of time fielding questions about it. It dips into awkwardness once when Richie’s grandma, who had lived in Derry for a while when they were kids, asks Eddie how his mother is. Eddie looks a little bit _deer-in-headlights_ for a second, and Richie can see Maggie itching to intervene, but Eddie explains that Sonia passed away a while ago and gamely accepts Grandma Tozier’s condolences. As the conversation moves on, Eddie lets out a little breath next to him, and Richie rests his arm on the back of Eddie’s chair to give his shoulder a little squeeze.

After dinner they all move from the dining room to the sitting room, sharing mugs of mulled wine, passing around boxes of chocolates, and playing different games that end up messy and stupid the more everybody drinks. It starts off fun, but by the time Richie is watching Eddie — pink in the face with wine and laughter — miming _ballroom dancing_ for a giggling Grandma Tozier, his charades teammate, Richie has an uncomfortable ache in his chest.

While everyone’s attention is on the game, he slips out of the room and into the empty kitchen, grabbing a glass of water and leaning against the sideboard. He can still hear the laughter and chattering through the open door, and he leans back just a little to see Eddie sitting back down on the sofa, in between Grandma Tozier and Went. Then the door opens fully again, and a sleepy looking Maggie appears in the kitchen.

“How you doing Richie-Rich?” she says softly, padding over and standing next to him. Her hair is a little ruffled now, her sparkly scarf replaced by a woollen shawl, her high heels gone and the fluffy slippers returned. He smiles at her, and wraps an arm around her shoulders.

“I’m good Mom,” he says, mostly truthfully, giving her a little squeeze. “Probably shouldn’t have had those last three drinks though.”

She laughs, but then sniffles a little, and he looks down at her in surprise. She quickly wipes her eyes with the shawl around her shoulders, and gives him a watery smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” she says, but sniffs again. “Nothing’s wrong, I promise. I just...I’m glad you’re here, is all. I would’ve understood if you didn’t want to come, but I’m really glad you did.”

“I’m glad I did too,” he says, honestly. “I wasn’t sure how it would go down, but I’m guessing you warned everyone to be on their best behaviour?”

“I genuinely didn’t have to Richie. Everyone was just excited you were going to be here, that’s it.”

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, and then Richie takes a shaky little breath.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, and Maggie hums agreeably. “Did you already know?”

Maggie sighs softly and pulls away from him to look up at his face.

“Richie,” she says softly, “would either answer make you happy?”

“Probably not,” he admits, but doesn’t look away from her, and eventually she shakes her head.

“No,” says Maggie eventually, “we didn’t know. But we weren’t...surprised. We _should_ have known, we should have paid more attention, we should never have stayed in that godawful town...”

She’s crying again in earnest, and Richie uses the arm around her shoulders to turn her to face him so he can hug her properly, and she clings to him like he might’ve clung to her as a teary kid. “I just want you to be happy Richie, that’s all I’ve ever wanted, and it seems like...it seems like you haven’t been happy.”

He sighs and let’s go of her, fighting the urge to paste on a smile and lie.

“I haven’t been, I guess. Not for a while,” he says, and immediately regrets it when her eyes flood with tears again. “But I’m happy now!” he insists. “Happier than I’ve been in a really long time.”

“You do _seem_ happy,” she says with a sniff, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. The smile she gives him is very wobbly, but there’s a sudden gleam in her watery eyes. “Travelling around with Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Mom...”

“Who also came out recently.”

“Mother...”

“And who I can see with hindsight you were crazy stupid for when you were kids.”

“Margaret Tozier!”

“I’m just saying!” She holds her hands up in surrender, and then reaches up to brush his hair back fondly. “You look at him exactly the same way you did back then.”

“So people tell me,” Richie mutters. He glances through to the sitting room again, where Eddie is now engaged in a serious discussion with Went, his expressive eyebrows drawn together in a thoughtful frown. “I guess I’m still crazy stupid for him,” Richie says morosely, but Maggie clasps her hands together in delight.

“He’d make such a lovely son-in-law,” she says, and Richie shushes her in panic.

“It’s not...nothing’s going to...it’s just me, okay? It’s all me, he doesn’t...” He stops. _He doesn’t want me_ , that’s how the sentence ends, but he can’t say it, not even to his mom. Her expression softens even further.

“I can see how happy he makes you Richie. He...” She takes a turn to stare pensively at Eddie, laughing now at whatever Went is telling him. “He _gets_ you, he always did back then too. Maybe better than anyone else.”

“I know Mom.”

“And he really did grow up _very_ handsome.”

“I _know_.”

She tears her gaze away and surveys Richie thoughtfully.

“I understand now,” she says. “The way you look at him, the way you’ve always looked at him. What the two of you were like as kids. You always wanted his attention, always had to make sure he was looking at you, even if it was to yell at you for something.” She smiles, nostalgically, and then puts a hand to his cheek gently. “But you’re so busy being _on_ that you’re missing things.”

“Missing what?” Richie asks, perplexed. She places a hand on his forearm, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“The way he looks at you.”

***

The days in between Christmas and New Year pass slowly and sleepily, as they both take an opportunity to enjoy living somewhere that isn’t a hotel room. They’re still filming; they take a couple of day trips around Tampa and Richie enjoys annoying Maggie by recording her — documentary-style — completing household tasks, but they’re waiting until after the New Year’s party before they send the footage to Steve for editing.

On the twenty-seventh, Maggie and Went go out for dinner with friends, leaving Richie and Eddie spend a very pleasant evening eating Chinese food and watching terrible Christmas movies with the sound off so they can narrate the voices instead.

“Are you even paying attention?” Richie demands, after Eddie misses his character’s turn to speak. “This poor woman is never going to seduce her boss in time for the Christmas party if you don’t _commit_.”

Eddie’s staring at his phone intently, but he looks up when Richie kicks him.

“What?” He stares at the TV absently, and then shakes his head sadly. “I can’t do it anymore Rich, she deserves better, I can’t doom her to that life.”

Richie snorts with laughter, and flicks the TV off.

“Have you read any of the comments on the video from Georgia?” Eddie asks, his attention back on his phone. Richie’s stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch.

Yes, is the answer, but the fact that Eddie has asked makes him want to run out into the shadowy back garden, climb one of the trees, and start his new life with the squirrels rather than have a conversation about it.

**Vickers95:** I know they say in the first video they aren’t a couple but I don’t look at my friends the way Richie Tozier looks at Eddie.

 **GoldenGirl2:** Richie’s face when Eddie takes his shirt off in their friends back garden!

 **BlueEyez94:** I ship it. It’s official. Reddie are my OTP.

“Why?” he asks warily.

“Well...a lot of people are...”

_Oh god, here it comes. A lot of people are talking about how you look at me and it’s made me go back and watch every one of our interactions and Christ Richie..._

“Are what?” Richie eyes the trees in the back garden, trying to gauge which looks the most viable as his new home.

“Well, they’re not comments so much as questions,” Eddie says, and Richie lets out a tentative breath. “About our very famous friends naturally, but about what we were like growing up and stuff, and I just thought...” He shrugs, but emboldened by the fact that Eddie is _not_ focused on any of the more uncomfortable comments, Richie turns to face him properly, and makes a _go on_ gesture. “Well, I know we’re not posting our next proper video until after the party, but in the mean time we could make a short one answering some of these questions. It’s not like it’d take a tonne of editing and it’d maybe be a good way to, you know, test out how funny some of our childhood stories might be, since that’s what you were thinking of writing about.”

Eddie looks at him a little nervously, as though he’s expecting Richie to laugh or dismiss the idea outright.

“Eds,” he says, with a grin. “Eds, that’s a great idea.”

“Yeah?” Eddie smiles, relieved. “We’d have to check with Steve but—”

“I’m pretty sure Steve is not going to get mad at us for wanting to do _more_ work,” he says. “Go on, hit me with some questions.”

Eddie scrolls through the comments and reads them out — Richie grabs a notebook and pen and starts scribbling down the best ones. Some are funny, irreverent and teasing, but some are serious questions about growing up gay in their crappy small town, and when Richie pictures talking about it now, safe in the guest room of his parent’s house, with Eddie Kaspbrak at his side, he thinks, _you have fucking got this Richie Tozier_.

The next day, Richie wakes up late and finds he’s missed an entire novel’s worth of comments in the Loser’s group chat. He scrolls back to try and make some sense of it, but gives up and leaves his bed in search of Eddie and hopefully answers.

“Eds?” he says, finally locating Eddie in the conservatory, frowning at Richie’s hand-written notes while apparently trying to copy them out.

“Morning Rich,” he says. “You know, you write like someone got a chicken drunk, dipped its little toes in ink and just set it loose.”

“Thanks,” he says, sitting down opposite Eddie. “Thanks for that. Listen, why is there a message in the group chat from Bill that says...” He glances down at his phone again. “ _Eddie, definitely go with gored by a dinosaur_?”

Eddie laughs, and looks up from his notes.

“You fell asleep last night before I started it but...” He pulls out his own phone and brings up their video from Georgia, scrolling absently through the comments. “One question that came up a bunch of times was people asking about my scars.”

“What?”

It’s like a bucket of ice water over Richie’s head. Some days Eddie steps out of the shower or wanders around getting changed and Richie can’t tear his gaze away from the scars, but some days he looks and the guilt makes him nauseous.

“Well,” Eddie shrugs, like it’s nothing to be discussing the time a monster tore a hole in his chest. “There’s a little clip from us fucking about on our last night in New York when I was changing, and then you spilled that peach thing on me in Stan’s garden and I took my shirt off. They’re distinctive scars, I can see why people are curious.”

“You’re not...” Richie swallows thickly. “You can’t actually be thinking of answering the question?”

“Well, obviously I’m not going to tell people I was skewered by an alien, I’m not a total moron,” he sighs. “But I thought, it’s not like they’re going anywhere, and the question is probably gonna keep coming up, and the more I ignore it the more people are gonna want to know. I figure it’s just easier to come up with a story and get it over with, don’t you think?”

But Richie can’t think, he can’t focus on Eddie’s scars at the best of times without feeling the beginnings of a panic attack, there’s no way he can sit and smile and nod along while Eddie talks about it, even if what he’s saying is a lie.

“It’s...” He shrugs helplessly. “You can’t let people force you into talking about it, even if you don’t tell the truth. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

“I know,” he says. “But I don’t mind talking about it. I asked the others for ideas on what to say. Obviously I’m _not_ going with _gored by a dinosaur_ , that’s hardly better than the truth, Bill’s just an idiot. But,” Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s nice to be able to joke about it, I guess.”

Well, it’s not like he can argue with that. No one knows better than Richie Tozier that finding the chucks in something that would otherwise tear your soul to shreds can be the only way you manage to live with it. So when Bill had announced his and Audra’s intentions to divorce in the group chat with the message, _looks like I finally managed to end something_ , Richie had laughed. When Bev asks for a favour with, _no, you definitely will model for my new line Eddie, I saw it in the deadlights_ , Richie had played along.

He can even stand to join in with Stan’s jokes — whose sense of humour is _bleak_ , darker than Richie's and sharper than Eddie's — with a certain amount of enthusiasm, even if he jokes about turtles or bathtubs or blood. But then, he had not been given a warning seconds before Stan’s death, hadn’t been given a chance to prevent it, to save him, but been too slow and useless to do anything with that chance.

Stan’s death, after all, had not been Richie’s fault. Whereas Eddie’s...

Richie’s breath catches in his throat and his vision goes a little hazy and God, this hasn’t happened in a while now but he can picture like it was yesterday. The darkness lit only by that otherworldly green light, the jagged rocks, the smell of the sewers, the _blood_...

“Hey,” Eddie gives his forearm a bracing squeeze and Richie breathes. It’s fine, Eddie’s fine, they’re all _fine_. He looks up, Eddie’s face close and lined with concern. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. “I’ll answer this one by myself, okay?”

So they film their Q&A session, and the conversation in the group chat moves on, and Eddie doesn’t mention the scars again.

***

The camera gets a lot of use on New Year’s Eve.

The house is full this time; the Tozier guests from Christmas day return along with a mix of extra relatives and a whole load of Maggie and Went’s friends. The Christmas decorations are still up, the speakers are blasting a fun mix of cheesy pop songs from various eras, and the sitting room, kitchen and conservatory are full of people dancing, chatting and drinking. He and Eddie had spent the first hour of the evening answering various well-meaning questions about the show, but eventually that novelty had seemed to wear off and people are more interested in the party now than the mid-level celebrity trying desperately to fade into the background. Which isn’t usually Richie’s goal at any kind of event, let alone one that has Eddie Kaspbrak in attendance, and normally he’d be trying to make himself the centre of attention, talking up their show, shoving the camera in people’s faces and generally doing anything in his power to make sure Eddie never looks away.

But Eddie’s had the camera most of the night, going around Richie’s relatives and asking for stories about Richie when he was a kid, making sure he gets a good shot of every one of the ridiculous photos that Maggie and Went have of him, and Richie can’t look at anything else.

He looks _divine_ , for a start, in dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. He’s found a new way of doing his hair that accentuates the curls and makes it looks ruffled and touchable, and Richie can’t even look at the prominent joint of his ankle peeking out from under the cuff of his jeans without feeling a little dizzy.

Although that could be the champagne.

It’s eleven-thirty. Someone’s already turned the music down and put the TV on so that they can watch the ball drop, and Eddie’s holding the camera out at arm’s length so that he and Grandma Tozier (who is _definitely_ smitten and on the verge of tucking Eddie into her handbag when she leaves) can appear on screen at the same time. Richie gets to his feet, and heads for the back door.

He’s got one foot on the patio when Maggie grabs his arm.

“You alright?” she says, her voice light but concerned.

“I’m good Mags,” he says, forcing himself to smile, laugh as she rolls her eyes. “Just need a breather.”

She stares at him suspiciously for a second, but eventually nods and lets him go.

The garden has been decorated for the party — there are more lights in the trees and various tacky Christmas ornaments in the flowerbeds — but it’s mercifully empty when Richie gets out there. It’s chilly now and he’s only in his short-sleeved shirt, but he’s not going back inside just yet, can’t quite face seeing Eddie blending in with his family like there has always been a spot there carved out for him. He sits on the picnic table, balancing his feet on the bench and stares out into the empty garden.

He’s been a complete downer the whole night, he knows he has, and he sits in the dark garden and pokes at his feelings morosely.

He’s had more than one person come up to him today and ask what’s _really_ going on with him and Eddie, and he knows they’re teasing and they mean well and they just want him to be happy, and if thirteen-year-old Richie had known that _this_ is how well his family would take the news that he was gay it would rock his entire world view. But he’s _not_ thirteen-year-old Richie Tozier anymore, terrified of confronting his own self just to find out that _he’s_ been the monster the entire time, lying to his friends and his family and himself. He’s trying to be honest these days — with everyone — and he’s just spent an entire evening telling people he and Eddie are just friends.

Which they _are_ , it isn’t a lie. But it isn’t exactly the truth either, because _friends_ seems like a tiny, paltry word to describe someone who’s been part of his personality since before he really had one, someone he fought a monster with and would have died for, someone who literally _did_ die for him. Someone he forgot about for twenty-four years that were so miserable and empty and hollow that just seeing Eddie for the first time in that tacky restaurant had felt like waking up from a coma, like taking that first breath after seeing how long they could stay under the water in the quarry, like he’d been halfway to dead the entire time. God, the _relief_.

_There he is, my friend, my best friend. I wonder – I wonder if I’m still, is he still, are we still...?_

And this whole trip had been about getting to know Eddie again, trying to find out if they’re still friends, best friends, if they’re still RichieandEddie. It’s only been a month, but Richie thinks he has his answer already. He knows Eddie Kaspbrak, knows all the parts that are the same as he remembers and all the parts that are different. And he _is_ different, a bit. It’d be impossible to go through everything they’ve been through and not have changed at all, for better or worse. But he’s still Eddie. He’s still anxious and bossy and sharp and smart and neurotic and loud and sweet-natured. He’s still brave. He still cares about people ferociously.

And Richie’s in love with him.

It slots into place in his heart so easily, so quietly, barely even a realisation. No thunderbolt, no strike of lightning, just... _oh right, obviously_.

It’s time to stop kidding himself. He’s in love. He doesn’t know how Eddie feels, not really, and he knows how much it can hurt to let yourself hope for something but here’s the thing—

Jacob had been an asshole, and although it had taken a long time for Richie to get to the point of really believing it, he didn’t deserve the way Jacob had treated him. But Jacob being an asshole did not necessarily mean that he’d been wrong. No one else _had_ ever put up with Richie before, not for long, not without eventually finding him too much; too loud, too weird, too needy. He’s hard work, he knows he is, everyone who’s ever been in his life has told him that it takes effort to be around him for long. Even the Losers — who Richie _knows_ all love him — eventually need a break. Everybody has a limit.

Except Eddie, who is the antsiest, twitchiest person Richie has probably ever known, but God if he doesn’t seem to have an endless well of patience reserved just for Richie. Eddie yells and tuts and lectures but he never seems sick of Richie, always wants him around and never wants him to shut up, is always ready to talk back and keep Richie talking and is always, _always_ on Richie’s side.

So Eddie does love him, even if Richie doesn’t know exactly what kind of love that is, probably more than anyone else ever has. Which means that if Eddie doesn’t feel the same way, doesn’t want him, doesn’t love him back...chances are no one ever will.

The back door to the house opens and closes, and Richie turns, wondering if Maggie’s come out to check on him, or drag him back to the party, but it’s not Maggie who steps out onto the patio.

“Hi,” says Eddie. He’s got the blanket from the back of the sofa wrapped around his shoulders like a cape, and he’s carrying two novelty mugs shaped like snowmen. He carefully pads towards Richie and hands him the mugs, hopping up onto the table and unfolding the blanket so it wraps around both of them, huddling in close against the cold. He takes one of the mugs and clinks them together gently. Richie takes a sip; it’s hot chocolate, with a comforting burn at the back of his throat when he swallows.

“There’s Baileys in it,” Eddie says, when Richie raises his eyebrows at him. “Mags said you were out here sulking.”

Richie snorts.

“You blushed all over your tiny face a week ago when she said you didn’t have to call her _Mrs Tozier_ ,” he says, nudging Eddie carefully so as not to spill their drinks. “And now she’s _Mags_?”

“Yes,” says Eddie decisively, sipping at his own drink. “They’re my parents now.”

_Eddie Tozier._

“Okay,” says Richie, swallowing painfully. “We can share.”

They sit in silence for a second, until Eddie nudges him again.

“ _Are_ you sulking?”

“No,” says Richie. “I’m not _sulking_ , I’m just...” he trails off with a shrug, because really, what’s he supposed to say? _I’m in love with you and I have been for thirty years and if I tell you and it ruins everything I’ll never forgive myself._ “Where’s the camera?” he asks, eventually.

“Maggie has it,” he says. “Went was talking about the Christmas when you got a Pogo stick and you smacked yourself in the face with it and broke your glasses,” he says with a grin.

“Oh good,” says Richie. “I’m glad we decided to get my family involved, this will definitely be fine and not embarrassing.”

“S’okay,” says Eddie, “they’ve known me so long it’s embarrassing for me too. They were just talking about the time I got stung by a bee in your back garden and screamed about how I was going to die.”

Richie huffs a soft laugh, and they sit in silence for a while, until Richie’s comfortably warm from the drink and the blanket and Eddie pressed close to his side. From the house behind them, people start counting down from ten. Eddie looks up at him, illuminated by the shifting twinkle from the lights in the trees, a bright spot in the darkness.

“You wanna go back inside?” he says softly. Richie shakes his head and closes his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to cry. Eddie says nothing, but takes the now-empty mug from Richie’s shaky hand and leans down to balance them both on the grass. When he straightens up, he weaves his fingers through Richie’s and grips tightly, resting their clasped hands on top of his knee.

Everyone reaches the end of their countdown, and the house erupts into cheering and clapping and laughter. Eddie shifts suddenly beside him, leaning in closer and pressing a whisper-soft kiss to Richie’s stubbly cheek. Richie inhales at the contact, and Eddie stares up at him, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted and Richie can picture it so clearly, how he’d lean down, touch his fingers to the hinge of Eddie’s jaw and pull him forwards to bring their mouths together. So close, he’s so close...

Then Eddie smiles, and settles back down, leaning his head against Richie’s shoulder with a little contented sigh.

“Happy new year Rich,” he says quietly. Richie turns towards him, and presses a kiss into Eddie’s messy hair.

He looks up; the dark garden is illuminated suddenly with light and colour as fireworks explode in the sky, in Eddie’s eyes, in Richie’s aching chest.

“Happy new year Eds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time - Richie and Eddie have A Conversation and some truths come to light.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	8. Loose Threads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The screen lights up again, and this time the picture shows Eddie sitting cross-legged on the bed by himself. The light in the room is different than before, soft and pink, like he’s filming later in the day, and even before the little on-screen Eddie starts to speak, Richie feels his mouth go dry. 
> 
> “So,” Eddie says, “there was another question that a lot of people asked, and that was – resisting the temptation to do a Joker voice – how I got the scars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back with yet another "nothing really happens but what doesn't happen needs to be here" kind of chapter, sorry about that.
> 
> No particular CW this time but just a little note to say that this chapter starts and ends okay, but gets a teeny bit angsty in the middle. Richie is having A Time.

_And if you can't take the weather you can_

_Take my sweater with the loose threads_

_And I know that I'm in danger of unravelling_

_But believe me I'm fine with it_

_Because I'd rather fall apart than hold it all together_

_And I'm ready now to let go_

_Broken words come from healing jaws_

_Stitch me up stitch me up_

_I'm ready to talk_

_Loose Threads - Jonas Sees in Color_

Despite leaving the Toziers on the third of January with the intention of powering on through to Mississippi, almost a week later they’re still in Florida. They do have a vague schedule to keep — Eddie’s plan has them back in LA for the end of March and Steve has already started organising events for both of them — but Richie can’t bring himself to hurry their leisurely drive along the Gulf Coast, stopping for a night or two in each little town and taking blustery walks along the beaches. After Richie had spent the entire tail-end of the year thinking Eddie was going to hate him for turning up in New York unannounced, or for wanting to drag him around the country in a car, or for wanting to put all of their nonsense online — and _then_ worrying about how spending the holidays with his family was going to turn out — it’s been nice to just drift aimlessly along the coastline. 

The camera still goes everywhere with them, but nothing from their time in Florida has been posted online yet, so they’re mostly filming for the fun of it. Eddie watches all of their footage before sending it to Steve, cutting anything long-winded or hard to watch or clown-related, and most of what they’re filming right now will end up never being seen by anyone other than the two of them.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t still fun to annoy Eddie with it.

“Is this necessary?” he sighs, as he glares at Richie over the top of his coffee mug. His hair is still early-morning ruffled and he’s wearing a soft pink sweatshirt that makes him look warm and comfortable and it leaves Richie no choice but to annoy him, otherwise he’s going to have to get up and drag Eddie down onto his lap to squeeze him to death.

“Someone’s crabby today.” Richie zooms in a little closer on Eddie’s face as he scowls and crunches his toast grumpily. 

“I didn’t have time for a run this morning,” he says. “I’m only half awake right now.”

They’d driven into town late last night, crashing in the first motel they had found and even Eddie had been too tired to go through his usual checklist of grievances and potential hazards. They had both woken up several hours later than usual, and Richie had immediately insisted that finding food took priority over Eddie’s need to run down the beach like a puppy.

“All this running can’t be good for you Eds,” he says. “Every day? What kind of weird, cult-like ritual is that?”

“It was your fault I didn’t go this morning, you and your insatiable need for pancakes. Just for that, you can come with me later, that can be your punishment.” 

“If you want me to die on a beach in Florida, you can drown me with your own hands like a real man,” Richie says, grinning as he gets the first little chuckle of the day from Eddie. Richie focuses the camera on his face, catching the smile and the laugh and ready for the inevitable comeback, but then Eddie freezes, his attention caught somewhere over Richie’s shoulder. Richie drops the camera onto the table and turns to see what’s caught his gaze. He appears to be looking up at the community noticeboard hanging on the wall, and Richie turns back and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“What’s up Eds? Lost cat you want to hunt down? Missed connection with that cutie who hit on you on Mexico Beach?”

Eddie doesn’t dignify this with a response, but stands up and reaches over Richie’s head to pull a flyer from the noticeboard, handing it to Richie wordlessly.

“ _One-Day Car Maintenance Workshops at Frankie’s Garage_ ,” Richie recites, and then looks up at Eddie. “You wanna do it?”

Eddie’s cheeks are a little pink, and his gaze stays stubbornly on his plate of half-eaten eggs, poking at them with his fork and shrugging defensively.

“I _could_ ,” he insists. “I’m pretty good at stuff like that, I bet I could.”

“Edward Kaspbrak, when have I ever told you that you couldn’t do anything?” He gives Eddie shin a gentle kick under the table. “Do you think you need it though?”

Eddie finally looks up at him, pouting thoughtfully.

“Well, I know a bit about cars but it’s all just stuff I’ve picked up myself, I’ve never been _taught_ anything. And, you know, we’re about to drive through a big chunk of Texas and most of Arizona, what are we going to do if the car dies in the middle of the desert and neither of us knows what to do?”

That is a good point. It’s the most Kaspbrakian reason to want to do anything — he’s not an ex-risk analyst for nothing after all — but if they do break down miles from civilisation Eddie’s definitely going to have a meltdown and it’s not like they can rely on _Richie’s_ mechanical knowledge to get them out of trouble. 

Besides, any plan that gives Eddie another reason besides running to stroll back into their motel room all messy and dishevelled is a plan Richie can definitely get behind.

“The next one isn’t until Friday though,” Eddie says, perusing the flyer again. “It’d mean sticking around here a few days longer than we planned.”

“Do it Eds,” Richie says, taking a definitive bite of his pancake. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

***

  
It rains. They had plans, but the precipitation that never quite turns into a shower but never clears up either has them mostly holed up in their motel room. Richie isn’t sad about it though, not when it means Eddie coming in from his run flushed and damp, and then hurrying out of the shower to cuddle up close to Richie in one of the twin beds, watching movies and eating junk and talking and teasing and bickering until they’re curled around each other with laughter, and Richie thinks that his teen self would be pretty fucking pleased with how his road-trip plan is turning out.

  
***

  
On Friday morning, Eddie’s up bright and early and raring to go; Richie can practically feel him vibrating as he dashes around their motel room gathering things he doesn’t need and tidying things that don’t need to be tidied. 

“You nervous?” Richie asks eventually, and Eddie stops in his tracks — apparently only just realising that he’s spiralling around the room like a wind-up toy gone wild — and gives Richie a sunny, eye-crinkling smile.

“No,” he says, “I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never done anything like this before, I think it’s going to be fun.” 

He looks so bright and excited and adorable that Richie impulsively pulls him into a slightly crushing hug as he’s hovering in the doorway of their room.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie says, patting Richie’s back and laughing. “Are you gonna be okay by yourself for the day? Please eat something that isn’t just Cheetos and Twizzlers. Leave the room at least once. If you end up writing you have to take breaks away from the screen — every half an hour — because, you know, your eyes—”

“Eddie! I lived by myself for many long years and I managed to keep myself alive,” he says, laughing to disguise the giddy little bubbles of pleasure he always gets when he’s on the receiving end of Eddie’s slightly pushy brand of worry and affection; it’s been a long time since anyone cared about him so ferociously. 

“A genuine miracle,” Eddie deadpans, but then breaks and reaches up on his tiptoes to give Richie an extra squeeze.

Then he’s gone, leaving Richie with the prospect of a full day alone for the first time in weeks which, despite laughing at Eddie’s fussing, is a little daunting. He showers and dresses, and then thinks that if Eddie’s gone to spend an entire day learning how to save them if the car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, he should probably try and do something useful too. So he tidies up the small motel room — twin beds and a tiny en-suite bathroom that they definitely won’t have space for a nervous breakdown in — and takes some of their clothes to the laundry room downstairs, even folding and putting them all away once everything’s clean and dry. Eddie’s taken the Escalade into the city, so Richie can’t go very far unless he wants to call an Uber or something, but it’s only a fifteen-minute walk to the row of little stores along the seafront, so Richie takes Eddie’s advice and goes to get some air, picking up a bag of groceries and some lunch while he’s out, before heading back to the motel room to start on his real work for the day.

The videos on their YouTube channel have been flooded with positive comments, but Richie’s aware that this is a stop-gap in his career and eventually he’s going to have to decide what comes next. With Eddie’s help, he’s been honing some of the stories from their childhood into anecdotes he _thinks_ might be funny to an audience wider than just his friendship group, but if he ever wants to tour again, he needs to wrestle all these little bits into a solid ninety-minute show. He’s not sure if he _does_ ever want to tour again, but eventually Eddie will go back to New York, and their mutual mid-life crisis adventure will be over, and Richie is going to have to make a decision one way or another. 

He taps away on his laptop for most of the afternoon, writing and re-writing various stories and lines and bits but the truth is, without Eddie to bounce ideas off, or try out Voices on, or even just turn to for confirmation on how a particular memory played out, the process is slow and arduous and nowhere near as fun. He hasn’t had to do this alone for weeks now — has spent the past couple of days the weather has kept them shut in their room stopping every so often to write down snippets of their conversation because Eddie’s funnier than anyone else Richie knows, and Steve is right when he says that Richie is funnier when he’s playing off Eddie and this is all just a painful reminder that eventually he’s going to be back in LA all by himself, while Eddie gets on with his life three-thousand miles away. 

He occasionally finds himself thinking about what Eddie had told him when they were tucked up in his hotel room in New York, about his childhood daydream where they ran away to the big city, to build a life and a home and a future together. He doesn’t know how attached Eddie is to New York really, not now he doesn’t have an apartment or a job or a wife there, but if Eddie’s in love with the city, then Richie could fall in love with it too. Steve wouldn’t be over the moon with the idea, but he could definitely do his job from New York; a fresh start on top of a fresh start.

But...would Eddie want that? Bev and Ben are also in New York — for now — so it’s not like Eddie is the only reason to move there, but Richie isn’t subtle and Eddie isn’t stupid, and if he’s trying to figure out what do with his new life, will he want to do it with Richie always lingering one step behind him, like a shadow that never shuts up? And Eddie may not have his wife or his job to go back to, but he has a handful of friends there and Richie’s noticed a few comments on their videos from a user called **CornerCoffeeLeo** and Richie knows Eddie still talks to Bev’s friend Cary pretty often. Richie wants Eddie to be able to rebuild his life in whatever shape he wants — Eddie deserves every single good thing that could possibly happen to him — but Richie doesn’t know if he can watch Eddie build that life with someone else.

Richie lets himself fall into a depressive spiral picturing Eddie’s happy New York life that doesn’t involve him, then he feels like a piece of shit for thinking like he’s entitled to any little bit of Eddie’s space and attention and his ability to write anything funny just dissolves. 

It’s almost five now, Eddie will be finished with his workshop within the hour, maybe Richie can find somewhere nice to take him for dinner, once Eddie’s showered and changed, because there’s no way he’ll sit in a bar or a restaurant wearing clothes he’s spent a day messing about under the hood of a car in. He’ll be all rumpled and sweaty, his hair curly and damp, maybe a smudge of engine grease along one cheekbone…

His phone buzzes from the bedside table and Richie jumps guiltily. He grabs for it and hopes the message isn’t from Eddie, as though reading Eddie’s name on a screen will open up some kind of psychic connection between them, giving Eddie a sudden vision of the interesting mental picture Richie’s just conjured of him. 

**Steve** : Great idea with the Q&A clip, people love it! Think about doing another one when you guys are back in LA?

With some difficulty, Richie pushes away the image of Mechanic Eddie to respond to Steve with a thumbs-up emoji, and then stares contemplatively at his laptop. The video was posted yesterday, but Richie hasn’t seen it yet. He doesn’t particularly like watching himself on screen but Eddie — who has become pretty good at some of the rudimentary editing — likes to see the end result, and they’ve been waiting until next week when their video of Christmas and New Year’s goes up to watch them both together. But Richie suddenly wonders if watching himself and Eddie tell some of their childhood stories together on a screen might actually kick-start his inspiration and help him claw his way out of his bad mood. 

He opens up YouTube, sticks his laptop on the end of the bed, and settles in. The video opens with both of them sitting cross-legged on the double bed in the guest room of Richie’s parent’s house, both of them scruffy-haired and relaxed in their ugly Christmas sweaters. In the end, conscious of keeping the video brief and aware of the vast amount of questions being asked, they had decided to write down as many of the questions as they could onto little scraps of paper, stick them into a big mixing bowl, and then pick out a dozen or so at random to answer.

Richie goes first.

“So, Edward…” he says, clearing his throat theatrically. “How exactly does the world look when you’re seeing it through the eyes of the smallest baby fawn in the forest?”

“Fuck off!” Eddie wrestles the piece of paper in Richie’s hand away from him. “It doesn’t say that, nobody asked that, you’re supposed to be asking the questions that _normal_ people have asked.” 

The video varies in tone. Most of the questions are silly and light-hearted, prompting them to tell funny stories of their misadventures as kids, teasing and laughing and talking over each other the whole time. But some of them are more serious; Eddie pulls out a question about Adrian Mellon — the kid whose murder had kick-started the whole mess back in Derry — and they answer as honestly as they can without bringing clowns into it, both of their on-screen faces sombre and sad. 

Then Eddie pulls out a slip of paper and reads— “If you could talk to your kid self for five minutes, what would you say to them?”  
Eddie hums thoughtfully and talks about what a good question it is, but Richie watches his own face go through a complicated kaleidoscope of emotions, and vividly recalls how the question had made him feel like someone had reached into his chest and grabbed his heart in a vice-grip. The mental picture of his scared, skinny kid-self carving R+E into the kidding bridge in Derry had returned and he imagined facing that kid again and having to tell him that one day they’ll finish the clown off for good and he’ll come out to his friends, his parents, the whole goddamn world and he still won’t have the guts to admit anything real to Eddie Kaspbrak.

He watches himself get ready to make a joke— _I’d tell him he’ll get a lot more done if he quits jerking off for like, one day a week_ — but then Eddie decides to answer the question himself.

“I’d tell him he’s braver than he thinks,” he says, with a soft little smile. “It’s all he ever really needed to hear.” 

Richie had wanted to cry a little bit; he’s tearing up now even, just looking at Eddie’s sincere face and big soulful eyes on the screen. He’s trying not to watch himself, to see the way his attention is always drawn back to Eddie, staring at the side of his face and unconsciously shifting closer to him and good fucking God, has he always been so obvious?

He’s glad they end on a lighter note, both of them laughing as they read out a question from Bill — _Richie, I love you and I’m glad you’re having a good time, but are you ever planning on giving me my Switch back_ — and Richie manages to get a hold of himself again, ready to turn off the laptop and maybe have another brief attempt at writing something before Eddie gets back. 

Then the screen goes black, and Richie frowns. The question from Bill was the last one they’d ended up answering, but they rounded out the clip by thanking everyone for watching and asking people to comment with more questions for them to answer.

Then the screen lights up again, and this time the picture shows Eddie sitting cross-legged on the bed by himself. The light in the room is different than before, soft and pink, like he’s filming later in the day, and even before the little on-screen Eddie starts to speak, Richie feels his mouth go dry. 

“So,” Eddie says, “there was another question that a lot of people asked, and that was — resisting the temptation to do a Joker voice — how I got the scars.”

Richie almost laughs — he can’t help it — but it gets caught in his throat before it really sounds like laughter, and he swallows painfully. The urge to just slam the laptop closed is overwhelming, but Eddie looks so determined, so ferocious, that Richie feels suddenly ashamed of himself — if Eddie’s brave enough to answer the question then Richie owes it to him to watch. 

The Eddie on screen clears his throat.

“I wasn’t gonna answer, but not because I’m like, pissed off at the question or anything. It’s just kind of a weird story, and it involves a few people who aren’t me, and bits of it are part of a police investigation, which sounds like a joke but actually isn’t. But I spoke to some of my friends and decided how best to tell the story and so I’m going to, but bear in mind this is the glossiest of glossed-over versions of what happened.”

He takes a breath and looks nervously off-camera for a second, before appearing to steel himself. Richie’s hands are clenched in fists so tight he’s losing all feeling in his fingers.

“At the end of last summer I had a reunion with some of my friends that I grew up with — including Richie — and we went back to our hometown. We had dinner and some...shenanigans ensued. There was this house in our home town that had been abandoned for...God, I don’t even know how long, ever since I can remember, and we used to play in it as kids. And it was gross and creepy and fucking haunted for all we knew but, we were stupid and young. So, we’re back in our home town and we think — _we should go check out that old weird house we inexplicably used to play in_. Which was stupid, obviously. I mean, I used to be a risk analyst and I did not analyse the risks very well because I fell through a rotten floor and onto a metal bar below it. It went in my back and came out through my chest, and I...I lost a lot of blood and kind of nearly died. Richie...” He hesitates, his mouth a severe, unhappy line. “Richie was with me when it happened and he...” Eddie takes a breath; Richie’s holding his like he’ll drown if he doesn’t. “He thought I had died. He still...he doesn’t really like to talk about it, which is why I’m answering this question on my own. So that’s what the story is with the scars — I was playing with my stupid friends and got hurt, but because they’re awesome they got me out and took care of me and now I’m fine. And the scars are definitely...I mean they are definitely there but hey, at least I'm still alive to have them.”

The screen goes black again for a couple of seconds, and then starts up again, this time with both of them and the tail end of their joint video that Richie had been expecting, but Richie stares at the screen blankly and takes in nothing of it. 

It shouldn’t be a shock. After all Eddie had told Richie he was going to answer the question by himself, he knew Eddie had wanted to talk about it, had wanted to get the question out of the way so it wouldn’t get brought up again, and obviously he wasn’t going to be able to tell people the truth.

It’s not even the big lie that’s got him wanting to hurl. The story about falling is a good one, really. It’s got the same setting as the true story, it fits with the placement of his scars and it’s a straightforward enough answer that it probably won’t prompt further questions, clear-cut and simple.

It’s the smaller lies he can’t stand.

_My awesome friends._

_They took care of me._

_They got me out..._

Except they hadn’t. They hadn’t taken care of Eddie and they hadn’t gotten him out, they had just left him down there like so much buried garbage and now Eddie’s lying to cover for them. 

Richie can’t handle this. He closes the lid of the laptop, shoves it under the bed and stands up. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing, he just needs to be out of this room, needs some air, or at least needs to be somewhere it might be safe to throw up.

He opens the door of the room just as Eddie is doing the same from the outside, and they almost crash into each other. 

“Woah!” Eddie laughs, and holds his hands up to steady Richie, but Richie flinches away from him immediately, can’t even stand the idea of Eddie touching him right now. “Hey, are you...what’s wrong?” Eddie steps into the room and closes the door behind himself. He’s carrying a plastic bag that smells like takeout, and he puts it onto the dressing table carefully and then looks up at Richie with concern.

“Nothing.” Richie turns away from him, his throat seizing up as he tries desperately not to cry. God, if he cries Eddie’s going to _know_ something’s wrong and there’s no way he’ll just let it drop then.

“Rich,” Eddie puts a hand on his shoulder and tries to turn him around, “Richie, come on, did something happen?”

His voice is tight with worry, his eyebrows pulled together as he stares up at Richie seriously, like Richie deserves Eddie’s care or affection or gentle hands on his skin.

“Nothing happened.” He pulls himself away from Eddie desperately, every point of contact between them spearing him with guilt. Richie takes the opportunity once he’s free of Eddie’s eyes and hands to wrestle himself back under control, forces a smile onto his face and turns around. “I’m fine Eds, promise. Did you bring real food? Cause I gotta be honest, I did eat a lot of Twizzlers today.”

Eddie narrows his eyes, obviously not convinced by Richie’s bluster, but apparently decides to let it go for now and starts unpacking takeout boxes. Richie asks about his day and Eddie talks about the things he learned so enthusiastically that Richie’s silence goes mostly unnoticed, all he has to do is listen to Eddie’s voice and watch his tired but happy face and for a while Richie thinks it’s all going to be fine. Then Eddie stands up and starts gathering up their garbage to shove it back into the plastic bag it came in, and when he turns to say something to Richie, he loses his grip slightly and tips dark, sticky sauce onto his light grey t-shirt.

“Oh, ew!”

He says this with a whine in his voice that makes him sound twelve again, and it finally draws a reluctant laugh out of Richie, which has Eddie flashing Richie the weird grin/scowl hybrid that always makes his heart flutter a little. Eddie finishes tying up the plastic bag and then looks down at his t-shirt with irritation.

“Okay, I’m gonna shower now,” he announces, and then immediately and unselfconsciously strips the t-shirt off. All his attention is on trying not to get sauce on his face or in his hair, but he turns immediately towards Richie when he lets out a pained little gasp.

“What? What’s wrong?”

And Richie had been getting better with the scars, he really had, but seeing them now when his insides had already been chewed up with guilt about everything he had failed to do for Eddie is too much to handle.

He gets to his feet and tries to head out onto the tiny little balcony, but Eddie stands firm in his way.

“Rich, what’s going on? _What’s happened_?” 

“Nothing!” Panic starts to bite at Richie’s throat as he tries to push past Eddie. “Just back off, okay?” 

Eddie blinks his big Disney eyes at Richie, an expression of obvious hurt on his face, and Richie wants to throw himself out of the window. They stare at each other for a second, before Eddie finally gives in and steps to the side, allowing Richie to edge past him and out into the chilly night air, half closing the door again behind him. It’s as clear a message as he could send without actually saying something he’s definitely going to regret, and he hears Eddie sigh his spiky little sigh before disappearing into the bathroom. 

Richie breaths in slowly, trying not to vomit onto some poor fucker’s car in the lot below. He leans his forehead on the cold metal of the railing until the dizziness passes and he can stand up straight again, and tentatively steps back into the room.

The spray of the shower is still going, the door to the en-suite pulled firmly shut, and Richie shakily sits down on his bed, throwing his glasses onto the floor with the abandoned laptop and turning towards the wall. 

He’s such an _asshole_. Obviously Eddie was going to notice something was wrong and obviously he was going to be concerned; he’s a good friend and for some unknown fucking reason, he cares about Richie, and now Richie can’t even _look_ at him. 

This is what happens, this is what _always_ happens. It’s so easy at first, to keep up the act that really makes up half of Richie’s personality — the class clown, the jokester, someone fun and light-hearted and invulnerable who’s never the butt of the joke because he’s quick enough to be the one telling it. But it’s impossible to maintain that forever, which is why eventually it drops and people find out that underneath all that is someone depressive and moody and needy. 

This is where Eddie realises that Richie really is too much effort, the same way everyone realises it, in the end. 

And if that wasn’t enough...there’s _this_ to deal with. Stupid really, to think he could keep it from Eddie forever, one of the two secrets that has his guts contorting with guilt every time he thinks about it for too long, now impossibly tangled up together — _I’m desperately, hopelessly in love with you and I let you down when you needed me most_. 

If Eddie comes back out of the bathroom and pushes it’s all going to pour out of Richie like poison — _it was all my fault. We left you down there and you lied to cover for us and maybe the others feel bad about leaving you but it was me you risked everything to help and it was me that got a chance to save and it was me that let you die and it’s me that thinks I have any right to want you the way I do._

The shower goes quiet and Richie can hear Eddie pottering around in the bathroom. It’s getting late; they’d normally be settling in for the night by now, but Richie is half convinced Eddie’s going to come out of the bathroom and tell Richie he’s leaving — going to find his own room, going back to New York, going anywhere he can that will get him away from Richie.

Maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just come out into the room and wordlessly slide into his own bed and they won’t mention the fact that Richie is a piece of shit who can’t deal with his own emotions like a grown-up and snaps at his best friend even though it’s himself he’s furious with, not Eddie.

The door to the bathroom opens, and Richie squeezes his eyes closed again, taking the coward’s way out and pretending to be asleep.

Richie can hear Eddie’s footsteps padding on the thick carpet, hears him sigh and then the light click of his glasses being set down on the table between the two beds. Then Eddie turns the main lights out, leaving the room lit with just the bedside lamp and Richie risks opening his eyes just in time for Eddie to switch the television on. He channel-hops for a couple of seconds, and then settles on a nature documentary, the sounds of the sea and a calm narration smoothing over the spiky silence and Richie closes his eyes again, grateful at least that Eddie doesn’t seem to be leaving. Then the mattress dips behind him as Eddie wriggles under the covers, flooding the bed with warmth and the scent of the citrus body wash he uses — sherbety and sweet like orange rocket pops, or the powdered lemonade they used to make up and sell for ten cents a cup from a stall in Richie’s front yard. Once Eddie stops squirming and seems to be comfortable, he rests a hand lightly on Richie’s shoulder. 

And this is exactly what had got him so morose on New Year’s Eve, sitting by himself in a dark garden and thinking that only one person on the planet was ever going to be able to put up with his bullshit, and here he was expecting Eddie to flake out after just one little sulk, as if Eddie ever runs away from anything important. As if he’s ever not there when his friends need him.

Richie wants to move closer, to snuggle back against Eddie’s warmth, to turn around and wrap his arms around him and press his face into Eddie’s chest — scarred but whole and alive and _here_ — and breathe in that sweet summer scent. He doesn’t, and Eddie doesn’t say anything or seem to expect anything from Richie, just runs his thumb along the top of Richie’s arm in a quiet reminder — _still here, still here, still here_ — and eventually Richie lets it lull him to sleep. 

***

In the morning Eddie’s up and about before Richie, sliding wordlessly out of Richie’s bed without mentioning the previous night the whole time they’re washing and dressing and dancing around each other awkwardly.

Richie had wanted to hire a boat and take one of the dolphin-spotting tours that are advertised all along the seafront near Panama City, but it’s not exactly dolphin season yet, and Eddie had been reluctant to test the mettle of Richie’s stomach in such a confined space. To make up for this crushing disappointment, Eddie had eventually agreed to go with him to a weird little science-themed amusement park that’s really for kids, but has laser-tag and a rocket-launch simulator and all kinds of goofy, nerdy things that he knows they both would have loved when they were hyperactive little dweebs back in the day.

He’d been excited about it ever seen Eddie had agreed to go — bitching about how they were going to look like _weirdos_ going to a place like this without a kid — but now all he wants to do is climb back into bed, pull the covers over his head and not deal with anything real for at least twenty-four hours.

They do go, in the end, because they’ve booked tickets, and if Richie tells Eddie he doesn’t want to go it’s just going to give Eddie an opening to ask what’s wrong again, but Richie’s heart isn’t in it and Eddie gives up eventually, puts the camera away and stops making jokes and agrees with Richie’s stilted suggestion that they call it a day, driving them back to the motel hours earlier than planned.

The minute the door to their room closes behind them, Richie sits down on his bed, back against the headboard, leaning his forehead on his bent knees. He’s hiding and it’s shitty of him, but he knows Eddie’s going to ask and the thought of all of Eddie’s attention on him — whether Eddie’s concerned or annoyed — is unbearable.

He feels the bed dip slightly, and when he raises his head Eddie is sitting opposite him, cross-legged and sad-eyed and Richie is desperate to touch him; to grab his ankle, move around so they’re shoulder to shoulder or just bury his face in Eddie’s neck. But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t deserve comfort from Eddie right now.

“Richie,” Eddie sighs, “what’s going on?”

Richie doesn’t say anything, and Eddie strokes a thumb across the top of Richie’s foot.

“Come on,” he urges gently. “You were obviously pissed off at me last night, and today it’s like you’re barely even here. If I’ve done something—"

“No!” _God_ , he can’t do anything right, now Eddie thinks this is all his fault. “You didn’t do anything, it’s not...I’m not...” He sighs as Eddie blinks at him, clearly lost, and Richie shakes his head and gives in. “I watched our Q and A video,” he says, and Eddie raises his eyebrows.

“Without me?” he says, in a faux-scandalised voice. “Well now I feel like I should be mad at you.” 

He’s joking around, clasping a hand to his heart dramatically, but Richie can’t stand the fact that Eddie is trying so hard to make him feel better. 

“You lied,” he says sharply. “When you answered the question about your scars...you lied.”

Eddie stares at him, his smile slipping and the concern on his face returning. 

“Of course I did,” he says slowly. “We talked about that, I talked about it with the others too. It’s not like I could just say, _oh I was speared by a giant shape-shifting alien and I actually died for a bit but I was brought back to life by a magic turtle we think might be God._ I don’t want to get _sectioned_.”

“I didn’t mean that lie,” says Richie. His voice is petulant and moody, but he can feel genuine tears beginning to sting his eyes. “You said...you said you survived because your awesome friends got you out and took care of you. But that’s a lie — we weren’t awesome, we didn’t get you out, we just left you there. I didn’t want to—" he says urgently, suddenly realising that Eddie might not know this. “They...they wouldn’t let me stay with you, I wanted to stay with you...” He trails off to wipe his eyes, and when he glances back up Eddie is looking at him incredulously.

“Stay with me? What do you mean stay? In the cave under Neibolt?” Eddie pauses as though expecting him to answer, but Richie stays silent, because it’s not like he can just spit out, _you died down there and I died with you, and really, what was left of me to drag out_? “The place was collapsing; you’d have been crushed under that house.”

“I know,” he says simply, and Eddie rocks back slightly as though Richie’s hit him.

“Rich...Richie I was dead. Not...not hurt, or dying, but actually gone. What could you have done? What would have been the point in staying, just to die with me? You can’t think I would want that for you.”

“But I should have done,” Richie says his voice tight and strained. “I should have stayed, I shouldn’t have left you alone when it was all my fault—”

 _Shit_.

Eddie’s eyebrows twist in confusion.

“What was?”

“What happened to you,” he says, staring intently down at his shaking hands. “How you...how you died. It was my fault.”

“How the hell was it your fault?”

Oh God, Richie doesn’t have a plan for this conversation, had never imagined a scenario where he would be ready to talk about what he’d seen in the deadlights, but Eddie’s staring at him expectantly and he’s still here despite everything which means that Richie owes him some answers.

“When,” Richie swallows painfully. “When I was in the deadlights, I saw what was going to happen. I saw you get...get hurt and then I saw you die and I saw us all go to the quarry but you and Stan didn’t come back and we just left, we all just Derry without knowing, without _remembering_...” He sniffs and chances a look up at Eddie, whose face is a picture of grief.

“Jesus...” he breathes. “I didn’t know that’s what you saw in the lights. You never told me.”

“Of course I didn’t! I didn’t want you to know it was my fault you got killed, I didn’t want you to hate me.”

“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”

Richie shoves his glasses up into his hair and scrubs his eyes furiously, keeping his face covered as he forces himself to keeping talking.

“Because I got a fucking warning about what was going to happen and I did nothing. Because I’m so fucking useless that I let it happen all over again and I—”

“Richie!” Eddie grabs his hands and wrenches them away from his face, linking their fingers together and squeezing tightly. “Rich, tell me you haven’t been torturing yourself about this.”

He meets Eddie’s serious gaze, and thinks about his dreams, about the way his mind still occasionally rockets him right back under Neibolt, about the nauseous rush of guilt he sometimes feels looking at Eddie’s scars, and pulls a face.

“I mean, _torturing_ is a really strong word.”

“Rich, what could you have done?” Eddie says desperately. “You fell twelve feet onto jagged rocks, almost fractured both your kneecaps, hit your head and had about ten seconds after you opened your eyes before...before it happened. You were barely conscious, you couldn’t have done anything, there wasn’t _time_.”

“Eddie,” he gasps a little around the knot in his throat, the tears in his eyes blurring his vision even further. “Eddie, if you hadn’t come back—”

“If I hadn’t come back a lot of things would be different,” Eddie says, in a small voice that has Richie searching his face for answers.

“What do you mean?”

“Look,” Eddie sighs, “if we’re doing the gut-wrenching confession thing…”

“This is about what happened when you were dead, isn’t it?” He says, and Eddie pales instantly. “Stan said—”

“Stan told you?” Eddie demands, sounding betrayed.

“No,” Richie shakes his head emphatically. “No, he was very adamant about _not_ telling me. He just said that something happened and that…that I shouldn’t ask you about it.”

He raises his eyebrows a little pleadingly, and Eddie reaches over to slide Richie’s glasses back into place, softly thumbing a tear from his cheek as he does so.

“The turtle gave us a choice — me and Stan — whether to come back or not. It was up to us.”

“And you were going to choose not to?”

“There was a catch,” Eddie says quietly. Richie’s heart hammers — this is what he’s been afraid of all along. Of course there’s a catch, of course they don’t just get their friends back from the dead, of course it’s not so easy. “If both me and Stan came back then we’d be “remaking the circle” the turtle said, and when we all left Derry, we'd keep our memories this time. But if either of us stayed...stayed behind, then the circle would stay broken and our memories would fade again once we left.”

“So why would you want to stay?”

“Well I thought someone should and I couldn’t let it be Stan. I didn’t know much about him then but I knew he had Patty waiting for him, and that seemed like enough. And I was right, wasn’t I? Because he loves her, and he loves his job and his birds and...fucking... _Georgia_ even. He loves his whole life so much, what was mine in comparison? It was just...obvious which one of us it should be.”

“Eddie you fixed your entire life in the space of like, two weeks.”

“I know,” says Eddie, smiling a little. “But I never thought I’d have the guts to do any of that. Besides, I wanted you guys to be able to forget, to move past it all—”

“Why?”

“Why?” Eddie gapes at him. “How can you ask me that? You of all people, who still has nightmares about it all? If I’d stayed behind you wouldn’t remember any of it to still be afraid of.”

“Eddie...” Richie says, horrified. “You’re saying stayed behind as if you were spending an extra night in a cabin we'd rented — what you mean is stayed _dead_.”

Richie can’t handle this, the idea of Eddie thinking Richie would rather have slightly better sleep than have him back. He thinks back to before he left LA, when Eddie was constantly worried about how well Richie was sleeping, always insisting it was fine that Richie called at all hours, always answering and never telling him to deal with it himself, despite everything he now knows Eddie was dealing with too. Eddie’s own words float through his mind — _I hope you haven’t been torturing yourself about this_.

Eddie looks oddly calm however, taking both of Richie’s trembling hands in his again and squeezing them firmly.

“Listen,” he says softly. “It’s like when we were kids right, when we fought It the first time. It said that if we let It take Bill, It would make sure the rest of us lived long, happy lives. Remember?”

“Are you saying I should've let It have Bill?”

“What? No, of course I’m not saying that. I already told you, _welcome to the Losers Club asshole_ is in my top ten Richie Tozier moments,” Eddie smiles, but Richie can’t bring himself to return it. “But it was the same kind of thing wasn’t it? Like...like a sacrifice? One of us stays behind — in Derry, under that house — and everyone else gets to...to be okay? I was okay with that, with dying like that, it seemed worth it. I saved you, and I helped figure out how to kill it, and you guys could've left and rebuilt your lives without all that trauma.”

“You just said I was right not to let It take Bill,” says Richie, and Eddie stares at him like this is the stupidest thing he’s ever said.

“Yeah, because that was _Bill_ ,” he says and sighs. “When I was packing for Derry — after Mike called — I felt like I wasn’t going back to...to New York, or Myra, or my life or whatever. I think that's why I packed like three suitcases. Remember when we were kids, sometimes we just knew things, instinctively? Like it'd been the four of us for years — me and Bill and you and Stan — but then we met the others and it was like, _oh yeah, there you are_. Like we'd just been waiting for them. It was like that, and I thought it was because I was leaving, because I was making a decision for once in my stupid life. But it wasn’t, it was just that I was never meant to leave Derry a second time around. What you saw in the deadlights, I think that was the original ending, and we changed it, obviously, but I think that’s what was originally meant to happen. I was _supposed_ to die under that house—” Eddie cuts himself off as Richie inhales sharply.

“I'm gonna need you to never fucking say that again Eddie.” His voice is hoarse as he forces the words past the tears lodged in his throat, and Eddie’s eyes go huge, his mouth down turned as he leans forward and pulls Richie into a hug. Richie’s done being brave and worrying about what he deserves to take from Eddie and winds his arms around Eddie’s waist, pressing his face against Eddie’s shoulder and clinging to him desperately.

“God, I’m sorry Rich,” Eddie says, his voice muffled into Richie’s chest, “that was a stupid thing to say. It’s okay, I didn’t die down there — well, I guess technically I did, but not for long. I came back didn’t I? I'm right here.” 

“You know what my nightmares are about?” Richie says eventually, pulling away so he can see Eddie again. Eddie shakes his head.

“Clowns?” he guesses. “Pomeranians? Paul Bunyan?”

“You,” says Richie softly. “Always. Losing you again, you not coming back, or coming back but then the magic not...not sticking. And I hate it, it sucks, but then I wake up and you’re there, the past couple of months you’re right fucking next to me, in the same room. So I remember that...that you came back to—” He cuts himself off, not quite ready to say, _you came back to me_. “That you came back, and I can cope. So if you think for one second I’d trade away the nightmares if it meant losing you too, you’re fucking wrong okay? It’s worth keeping all the shitty memories if I get to keep you too. You keep telling _me_ that.”

“I know,” says Eddie. “I think I was trying to convince myself though. Stan keeps telling me we’ve all got a better shot at being happy if we have each other.” 

“He’s right. Eds I was miserable before we all went back to Derry. I had no fucking idea why, but I was lonely and empty and I _missed_ you, even if I didn’t remember you. It’s not like it’s all been easy since we left Derry, but I’m happier now than I’ve been in...God...years. I wouldn’t trade you for any amount of sleeping through the night.”

Eddie laughs softly at this, and Richie finally manages a half-smile.

“I am _so_ fucking glad you came back, okay?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie. “Me too, turns out.”

This crappy motel is all but deserted; the silence wrapping protectively around them both, like a safety blanket or a pillow fort, cross-legged like kids in a clubhouse with the very tips of their knees just touching.

He could do it. They’re sitting so close together he'd barely have to move, just lean forwards very slightly and he could...

Eddie looks at him with eyes turned liquid and glossy in the dreamy half-light from the setting sun, and raises his eyebrows, just a little. _What're you staring at_? But there’s a determined set to his jaw, one dimple showing in his unscarred cheek like he’s trying not to smile. It looks like a challenge. It looks like _I dare you_.

Eddie bites his bottom lip, and Richie thinks _fuck it_.

His heartbeats thunders in his chest and his throat and his ears as he leans forward the tiniest amount, watching carefully for the first sign of Eddie pulling away. He doesn’t; at first he doesn’t move at all, and then for a split second it looks as though he’s going to lean forwards, _towards_ Richie—

Then Richie’s phone rings, violently interrupting the moment as it vibrates itself from its perch on the side table and lands on the carpet with a muffled thud. They both jump, and Eddie laughs sheepishly, his hand on his heart, before he leans down to grab Richie’s phone from the floor, glancing briefly at the screen before handing it over.

“It’s your mom,” he says, and Richie takes the phone with shaking hands. Eddie stands up as Richie swipes to accept the call and a little well of panic swirls in Richie’s stomach at the sight of him leaving, but as Eddie eases past him he runs his fingers through Richie’s hair gently and when Richie looks up, Eddie smiles that same smile he had given Richie on the floor of Bill’s hotel room in Derry, a smile that says they share a secret, a _good_ secret, and right now Richie only has one secret left.

***

  
The next night they go out for dinner. 

Richie had wanted to do something, because finally telling Eddie about the deadlights and the dreams had felt like some kind of breakthrough, and he had a weird urge to mark the occasion. Having never been in Panama City before, Richie had texted Maggie for a recommendation on a nice place to take Eddie, and he’s regretted that impulse bitterly ever since they walked in.

Eddie gives the place an appraising onceover when they first walk in, but hurries off to the bathroom to wash his hands without comment, leaving Richie with a minute alone to message his mother.

 _I cannot believe you recommended this place!_

In less than a minute, her reply comes through.

 **Mom** : Enjoy your date!

It’s not as though the place is intimidatingly fancy, or even super romantic. It’s more cute and kitschy — clean white walls painted with pop-art murals in block colours and low hanging light fittings in different shades of tinted glass — but it’s definitely not a place that two bros go to hang out platonically. The little round tables scattered around the room are all set up for two people, each one with a pink and purple carnation in a miniature vase sitting in the centre. The atmosphere is cosy, with the softly coloured lighting and folksy guitar music and maybe it’s not somewhere you go for a big anniversary or to _propose_ or anything, but it’s definitely got fun first date vibes.

Or maybe it doesn’t, it’s not like Richie’s an expert on this kind of thing. He hasn’t been on a real date in years, not since his early twenties when he was still trying to convince himself that finding a girl funny and objectively attractive might be enough to make him stop looking at guys all the time. But that was a long time ago, long before Richie’s career had taken off and cemented his reputation as a womanizing asshole, leaving him with nothing but one-night-stands with other closeted men that, like Richie, would have died before being seen in a cute restaurant with another guy.

Richie wonders idly if Eddie would choose somewhere like this for a date. He dated Myra for a little while before marrying her, he must have spent time choosing nice places to take her and fun things that they could do, and he tries to imagine them together in a place like this.

Then the picture in his mind shifts and Eddie isn’t sitting in a pretty restaurant with Myra but his faceless college boyfriend, then Leo from the coffee shop, and then Bev’s friend Cary and Richie’s just about to torture himself by taking the mental image a little further when Eddie drops into the chair opposite. 

“You good?” he says immediately, half his attention on Richie and half on setting up the camera on it’s little tripod. Richie nods wordlessly, and Eddie gives him a suspicious little glare before picking up a menu and scanning it with interest, and Richie’s suddenly distracted from the slightly gut-wrenching thought of Eddie on a date with another man. He snatches the menu from Eddie’s hand, ignoring him as he huffs in protest.

“Eds!” he crows, flipping the menu over to the dessert list. “Look at _this_. We have to order this.”

It’s so tacky and sweet and funny that Richie lets his excitement get the better of him, and as Eddie leans over to see what Richie’s pointing at, Richie has the sudden urge to cover the menu with his hands, snatch it back, hide it under the table and run out the front door.

It’s a sharing dessert; a banana-split with seven scoops of ice-cream in different pastel-sweet shades, covered in whipped cream and bright sprinkles and topped with a big, rainbow-coloured marshmallow in the shape of a heart. Eddie raises an eyebrow.

“That’s the gayest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Edward, don’t be homophobic,” Richie scolds, laughing when Eddie punches his arm softly. _It’s a joke, it’s just a joke_.

“We can’t order this, I’m—”

“Don’t you fucking say the words _lactose intolerant_ to me right now, do you know how much cheese I’ve seen you eat since I left LA?” He pictures it for a second, the server placing it between them with two spoons, the implications involved in two people eating from the same dish, and sighs a little wistfully. “I’ve never split a dessert with anyone in a restaurant before.”

 _Shit_. He didn’t mean to say that out loud, and Eddie looks up at Richie with his eyes narrowed — not scowling exactly, but like Richie’s a complicated puzzle he’s trying to figure out.

“Rich, if we order that and you get recognised in here, people are _definitely_ going to think we’re on a date.” 

Richie nods like he agrees and when the server comes to take their order he doesn’t mention the rainbow ice-cream, but by the time she comes back with their meals twenty minutes later the image of it is still burned into his mind. He can’t shake the innocent romance of the gesture, the feeling that it’s undoubtedly a thing that _childhood sweethearts_ would do, and Eddie had scoffed when the tabloids had used the phrase to describe them but Richie remembers making Eddie mixtapes and climbing through his bedroom window when Sonia wouldn’t let him out and maybe Richie doesn’t know shit about dating really, but that definitely sounds like sweetheart behaviour to him. 

“You’re wrong anyway,” Eddie breaks into his thoughts suddenly, his cheeks a little pink as he stabs at his salad with unnecessary vigour. “You have split a dessert in a restaurant before, with me.”

Richie frowns at him, but then the memory washes to the surface — him and Eddie and an ice-cream sundae, in Sally’s diner near the Capitol after they’d been to see a movie without realising it was—

“Valentine’s day,” he says softly, and Eddie smiles. “On fucking Valentine’s day when the diner was all decked out in glitter and confetti.” The sundae had been pink and white with a candied cherry on the top, which Eddie had scooped out immediately and fed it to Richie, crinkling his nose in distaste because, _ew they're all gross and squashy Richie._ So Richie had eaten it from Eddie’s spoon and blushed the same colour as the ice-cream like a bashful moron. He shakes his head. “We were _so_ gay,” he says and Eddie snorts with embarrassed laughter.

“It’s not like we were on a date,” he clarifies, although his ears are pink. “We saw _Silence of the Lambs_ , we didn’t even realise it was Valentine’s day until we went into the diner.”

“Yeah,” Richie agrees, “we still shared the big pink ice cream though. I think — did we get shit for that? I feel like we probably got shit for that.”

“Rich, we got shit for everything, because you had such a big fucking mouth.”

“You had a big mouth too, Kaspbrak, don’t you even start that with me. But yeah…I think some less-than-savoury gentlemen saw us leaving and said some very unwoke things to us.”

Bowers and Hockstetter had been gone by then, but in a place like Derry it hadn’t taken long for others to crop up in their place, and Richie may have hit a shape-shifting alien in the head with a bat — hell, five-foot-nothing Eddie Kaspbrak had kicked it right in the face without hesitation — but nobody else in Derry knew that, and the Losers had not stopped being Losers just because they had fought a monster back into hibernation. 

“Yes, but it’s not like you kept your mouth shut then either,” says Eddie, his eyes gleaming a little. “I think the honour of some people’s mothers was called into question.”

“Probably,” Richie nods. “I was a master of comedy even at such a tender age.”

Eddie laughs and kicks him gently under the table, and they finish their meal talking about safer subjects — how Mike is doing in LA, Bev and Ben’s hasty wedding plans, where they might be headed next — until the server returns to take their plates.

“Do you want to order some dessert?” she asks, and God, Richie _wants_. It’s maybe the only thing that’s ever come naturally to him. 

He looks at Eddie and pouts; flutters his lashes and makes his eyes go big and maybe he doesn’t exactly have Eddie’s natural gifts when it comes to pulling puppy-dog-eyes as a tactic to get what he wants, but apparently it works just as well. Eddie rolls his eyes very slightly, but he smiles when he orders the rainbow ice-cream, and when it’s put down in front of them, he wields his spoon like a weapon and looks at the dessert like it’s threatened him in some way, seriously enough for Richie to wonder if Eddie really is worried about eating it. Then Eddie scoops up the heart-shaped marshmallow and Richie starts to tease him about stealing the best bit of a dessert he didn’t even _want_ , but Eddie raises his spoon to Richie instead, and the joke dies on his lips. He lets Eddie feed him the sweet wordlessly, twenty-something years dissolving away like the sugar on his tongue as he blushes bright red all over again, like a teenager on his very first date. 

***

They finally do leave Florida behind, and Richie can feel himself leaving something else behind too with the secret he had finally told to Eddie. Not the only secret, but a secret nonetheless, and the telling of one makes the idea of telling the other seem...well...still a little scary, but not unthinkable, because on the faded bedspread in a cheap motel, Richie told Eddie the very worst thing about himself and Eddie had hugged him and made him laugh and told him it was okay. Eddie doesn’t hate him, and Richie has to concede another thing that Stan Uris might be right about — maybe there’s nothing he could tell Eddie about himself that would make Eddie hate him. 

As they cross the border into Mississippi, Eddie glances over at him and grins and for the first time in Richie’s life, he lets himself look at Eddie Kaspbrak and doesn’t feel any guilt at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time - it's Richie's birthday! Wonder if Eddie remembered...
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	9. One Day Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re here today to celebrate the momentous occasion that is the birth of Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier,” Bill says, in a tone so affectedly serious it’s almost a Voice, and he grins at Richie. “We all lived for twenty-whatever years without listening to a constant stream of jokes about Eddie’s mom, and I honestly don’t know how we did it,” he says, ducking when Eddie throws a noisemaker at him. “You were one of my best friends when you were a skinny, obnoxious, frog-faced little kid and you’re one of my best friends now. The last few years have genuinely been a lot less fun than they would have been if I had remembered you, and I’m really glad to have you back. Happy birthday Richie!” 
> 
> He raises his glass and the others follow suit, and Richie blinks furiously because he’s still not ready to burst into tears in front of them all, but Bill is definitely testing him with that little speech.
> 
> “Oh God,” he says, lifting his glasses to rub his eyes. “No one look at me for a minute.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that this chapter is very sappy, please don't look at me.
> 
> This is almost entirely fluff and humor and Loser banter but CW for a drunk, homophobic ex-fan of Richie's approaching him in public, including one instance of the "f" slur used aggressively.

_'Cause holy cow I love your eyes_

_And only now I see the light_

_Yeah, lying with you half-awake_

_Stumbling over what to say_

_Well anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day_

_So throw those curtains wide_

_One day like this a year would see me right_

_For life._

_One Day Like This - Elbow_

**HowsThisForFast** @quigley89 They’re literally at Disneyland and all they’re looking at is each other.

**HoHoHope** @hohohope Look at them watching fireworks together on NYE 😍

**RichieLives** @ellabella Am I actually seeing them sitting in a restaurant on Valentine’s day joking about being each other’s safety husband??

Halfway through Arizona, Richie wakes up for the first time in a while to a completely empty room.

He sits up slowly and stretches out his back, before finding his glasses on the bedside table and squinting at the ugly floral clock on the wall. It’s a little after eight in the morning. The other bed across the room is meticulously made-up — if Richie hadn’t seen Eddie climb into last night, he might think it hadn’t been touched at all since they’d checked in. The bathroom door is open just enough for Richie to see that the light is out, so Eddie isn’t in there either.

The whole room is silent, which really should have been his first clue, since no space inhabited by Eddie Kaspbrak is ever silent. 

There’s a chance he’s gone for a run; they’re not _too_ far from the nearest town and it’s still early enough that the sun hasn’t risen to a risky height yet. They’re due to check out of this motel in a couple of hours, so maybe he went to do a quick last minute snack run for their drive. Maybe he’s pacing the parking lot on the phone to his lawyer — he’s had more conversations about the divorce over the past couple of weeks than in the entire rest of the time he and Richie have been on the road, and Eddie’s cagey enough about it that Richie can’t tell if this is a good thing or not.

Richie decides to call him, or at least check and see if Eddie has messaged him with a clue to his whereabouts. It takes him a couple of minutes to hunt down his phone — which he apparently left on the windowsill last night — and he’s distracted from Eddie’s absence by the number of messages already waiting for him. There are several in the Loser’s group chat as well as messages from his parents, Steve, Angie, Kelly and double the amount of Twitter notifications he usually wakes up to.

_What the fuck?_

A little knot of worry sets up camp in his chest. The fact that there are messages from Steve, Angie his agent and Kelly his social media manager is especially concerning; he doesn’t normally hear from any of them out of the blue unless he’s in trouble. Richie supposes it could be about their new arrangement for the road trip, with Ben and Bev’s spontaneous wedding date at the start of May coinciding with Richie and Eddie planning to be somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. But they’d all hashed it out over the last couple of days, eventually deciding to stay in LA a little longer than originally planned, before flying out to New York for the wedding and doing the second half of their road trip backwards, ending up back in California. 

He opens the Loser’s group chat first.

 **Big Bill** : Happy birthday Trashmouth!! 

**Ms Marsh** : Have a good one Richie! Behave yourself 😉

 **Mikey** : Have a great day Richie!

 **Haystack** : Happy birthday Richie! Hope you have fun 😊

 **Patty** : Happy birthday Richie ❤

 **Stan the Man** : Happy birthday Richie, you can shut up about still being forty now 🙄

Oh. Right. It’s his birthday.

Well, that explains the Twitter notifications and the fact that he’s woken up to a message from basically everyone he knows, and means he probably isn’t going to get yelled at by anyone. 

It’s been a long time since he’s celebrated his birthday. When he’d lived in Chicago, he’d still been supplementing his meagre income as a stand-up by waiting tables or tending bar so sometimes he’d take his birthday off work, maybe get drinks with a handful of acquaintances if he was feeling particularly sociable at the time. After he’d been in LA a couple of years and his career had started to take off, he had bought a big, ugly house in Beverley Hills and thought it was in keeping with his image to throw huge parties in it for his birthday, but waking up in the morning wondering what he might have done or said while he was drunk out of his skull and surrounded by people who didn’t actually give a shit about him was more stress than the actual night was ever worth, and eventually these events had tapered off. Selling the place and buying his current apartment had been something of a relief, even if he doesn’t quite love his new place yet either. 

Anyway, none of this explains where Eddie is, and none of the messages are from him but if all the other Losers remembered his birthday it stands to reason Eddie probably did too, and his curiosity is peaked a little bit. He sends a few quick replies to the group chat, his parents and Steve and the team — he’ll deal with Twitter later — and then swings his legs out of bed. He’ll get up, get dressed and if Eddie still isn’t back, he’ll venture out into the real world to track him down.

He gets as far as planting his feet onto the off-white carpet when the door opens, letting in both a beam of cheerful morning sunshine and Eddie, balancing a paper bag in his hands.

“Hi,” he says brightly, easing the door closed with his hip and putting his bag down for a moment so he can lean down and unlace his shoes, and then picks it up again and sits down on the end of the bed. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks,” says Richie, watching Eddie cautiously. He dips into his paper bag and pull out two brightly coloured takeaway drinks cups and a little box made of shiny white cardboard with _Erin’s Bakery_ printed on the top in pastel pink lettering. Eddie hands Richie one of the cups — which he takes wordlessly — and then opens up the box. 

“Wait...” Richie says, not sure whether to laugh or cry, “you got—”

“Hot chocolate and donuts,” says Eddie, with a grin. “It’s tradition.”

Richie stares down at them and swallows thickly. The donuts are huge; clearly more expensive than the ones his mom and dad used to get from the little town bakery in Derry, each one topped with glossy icing — rose pink and buttery gold. 

“Strawberry and toffee?” he says. “You even got the right flavours.”

“Obviously,” says Eddie. He plucks the lid off his drink and takes a cautious sip, before scrunching his nose up in distaste. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet,” he says. He sounds annoyed but goes back in for another sip though, so it can’t be all bad. He raises his eyebrows at Richie over the rim of his cup. “Hey...you okay?” 

Richie nods, not trusting himself to speak just yet. He’s only been conscious for twenty minutes, the fact that there were people out there in the world who had remembered it was Richie’s birthday and cared enough to send him messages about it was already testing his emotions; it’s absolutely too early for Eddie to be thoughtfully reviving beloved childhood traditions.

He takes a big gulp of his drink — it _is_ sweet — so that he can blame his watery eyes on scalded his throat with boiling hot chocolate, and tries desperately to rally himself. If he’s going to let himself get teary over donuts, it’s gonna be a long fucking day.

“How did you even know there’d be a bakery near here?” he says eventually, relieved that his voice comes out mostly normal.

“I looked it up when I booked this motel,” Eddie says. “I called in advance to order the right flavours for the right day. Come on,” he rolls his eyes, “what kind of amateur operation do you think I’m running here?”

“Aw, Eds...” he says quietly, and Eddie pulls a face.

“Because it’s your birthday, I’ll allow the stupid nickname,” he says, and then proffers the donut box at Richie with a grin. “Go on, eat your terrible breakfast that for some reason your parents let us have as children, even though your dad was a dentist.”

Eddie shuffles around until he’s sitting next to Richie, both of them leaning against the headboard, and takes the pink donut out of the box. Richie takes the toffee one and then Eddie bumps them together like they’re toasting Richie’s birthday with them, which is cute and ridiculous and sets them both off giggling. Eventually they calm down enough to eat, and Richie doesn’t want to know how much Eddie paid for these because it’s fresh and soft and delicious, and definitely better than the ones they had in Derry. 

“What’s the plan for today then?” says Richie, trying not to stare too obviously at Eddie’s mouth as he sucks a little stray icing off his thumb. “If we keep driving we could be out of Arizona by tonight?”

Eddie shakes his head.

“No, I don’t want to spend your entire birthday driving,” he says. “We do have to drive a little but I already booked us a place to stay and we have dinner reservations later.”

“We do?” Richie says, dropping the last little piece of his donut onto the bedspread and making Eddie frown and tut. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t _have_ to,” Eddie says, picking up the dropped donut and brushing crumbs off the cover irritably. Richie waits for him to hand over the piece of donut, maybe stick it back into the box if he considers momentary contact with the bedcovers enough contamination to make it inedible. But then Richie’s brain goes offline for a moment as Eddie raises it to Richie’s mouth, the pad of Eddie’s thumb brushing against his bottom lip as he wordlessly takes the little bite of pastry into his mouth and tries to fight down the instinct to take Eddie’s thumb between his lips with it. His heart is _hammering_ and God fucking knows what his face is doing, but Eddie just smiles and wipes icing from his hands with a napkin. “I wanted to. I missed a tonne of your birthdays Rich — and Christmases and New Years and stuff. We should celebrate these things now that we can.” He regards Richie fondly for a second, and then his eyebrows go into attack-mode. “Now get up!”

Richie’s heart gets a bit of a break when the need to do practical things becomes more pressing, and Richie gets dressed while Eddie packs up their room, ready to get back on the road. Eddie drives for a while, and then they stop at a gas station to refuel and Richie takes over, despite having no idea where they’re going, blindly following the directions Eddie put into his phone. Their nearest city is Flagstaff, but to Richie’s surprise the directions take them away from the city centre and out into the suburbs, streets and streets of houses set back from the road in little clusters, surrounded by trees and scrubby grass. He glances over at Eddie curiously, but Eddie's been pretty much glued to his own phone for the past twenty minutes and doesn't look up from it now.

Richie eventually stops when the phone tells him to, pulling up the driveway and parking in front of the big white garage door, staring up at the house, completely and utterly baffled.

When Eddie had mentioned having booked them a place to stay, Richie had expected a couple of nights in a nice hotel in the city, not a mid-sized family home. The neat wooden beams on the front of the house glow invitingly in the midday sun, the warm caramel colour a pretty contrast with the soft blue drapes that are pulled shut over the big windows. A little wooden roof sits over the front door, supported by rough stone pillars that are covered in creeping ivy, and the expansive front yard bears a handful of brave spring flowers and a couple of trees hung with lights. 

He gets out of the car and when he looks over at Eddie doing the same, Eddie has the video camera out and is pointing it at Richie’s face. Richie stares at him quizzically, and then back up at the house.

“This is a big place Eds,” he says eventually. “Is this how sick of me you are? Now we can occupy separate floors for a night?” 

There’s no way Eddie rented this place for just one night, and he wonders briefly if his birthday was a good excuse to stay somewhere civilised for a little while, after miles of desert and crappier than usual motels. But still, it’s not like the two of them need this much space, and the traitorous little voice at the back of his mind that has been pretty silent for the past few months suddenly pipes up to float the idea that Eddie really is getting sick of him, to need a place like this to hide from him in.

Eddie says nothing, smiling benignly, and gestures for Richie to head into the house, following close behind and keeping the camera trained on Richie the whole way. He heads across the patchy grass to the front door, and when he tries the handle, he finds it already unlocked. 

“Okay...” he says, throwing a suspicious look at Eddie, and then into the camera, before pushing the door open.

“Surprise!”

Richie jumps so hard he stumbles backwards into the door frame, and only Eddie’s hand on his back stops him from falling on his ass in front of all of his friends. Who are here, suddenly, in this house in the middle of Arizona where none of them live. 

“What the fuck...” he breathes, risking a glance at Eddie, who is smiling at him wickedly. The door opens straight into a high-ceilinged, open plan sitting room with gleaming white walls, an exposed stone fireplace and wall-mounted lamps casting soft light onto the mess of streamers and banners and balloons and people. The furniture is the same creamy blue as the blinds — and the big ocean-scene canvas that spans one wall — one of two huge sofas is bookended by Bill and Mike, Ben and Bev are curled up in a wide loveseat and Stan and Patty are sitting on a big, fluffy area rug, but they all scramble to their feet as Eddie closes the front door behind them. 

Richie closes his eyes for a second, the tears from this morning threatening to make a resurgence, and even for Richie it would be pretty dramatic to burst into tears in front of everyone. But then a laughing Bev is in his arms, squeezing him tightly and allowing him to bury his face in her hair for a second until he’s sure he’s not going to embarrass himself, and then he allows himself to be passed from person to person until he’s hugged everyone, and they finally let him a little further into the room.

He drops down onto the sofa not holding Bill and Mike.

“What the fuck are you all doing here?” he says, as they all laugh and start throwing balloons at him.

“It was kind of a military operation,” says Mike eventually, with a smile. “It took a lot of organising.”

“Luckily your best friend is Captain Itinerary,” says Stan, smirking at Eddie from his place on the floor; Eddie sticks his tongue out and pulls a childish _ner-ner_ face in response. 

“Eddie called us all like a month ago and pretty much ordered us to book plane tickets,” says Bill.

“Not that we needed convincing,” says Ben. “We all wanted to be here.”

“You've been planning this for a _month_?” Richie demands, turning towards Eddie so quickly that he nearly dislodges him from his perch on the arm of the sofa, forcing him to put a hand on Richie’s shoulder to steady himself. He flushes a little pink under Richie’s scrutiny.

“I wanted to give everyone enough time to be here,” he says, a little defensively. “It wouldn’t have been the same otherwise.” 

Richie leans against him slightly, his head somewhere around Eddie’s ribs, and Eddie slides his arm all the way around Richie’s shoulders, edging himself closer so he can give Richie a comforting squeeze. 

“It would not,” says Bev gleefully. “Everyone needs to be in attendance for Patty’s first ever Loser sleepover.”

Patty turns to beam at Bev, but Stan cradles her close to his chest protectively.

“I’m so sorry to have done this to you babylove,” he says, in a soft, sad voice and Eddie scoffs.

“You love Loser sleepovers Stan,” he says. “Just for nostalgia value I’ll draw a moustache on your face when you fall asleep.”

Richie bursts out laughing and cuddles a little closer to Eddie before he’s even realised he’s doing it, but Eddie just grins down at him, wrapping his arm a little tighter around Richie as Stan scowls at them both.

“Pats,” he says in a very audible whisper, “we’re going home.”

*

Eventually Richie and Eddie go back out to the car to drag their suitcases inside and heave them up the spiralling wooden staircase to see which of the four bedrooms they’ve been left with. They peep in and out of all the rooms, trying to guess who’s claimed which room by what luggage is in each one, until they find one that’s empty. It’s much bigger than any of the motel rooms they’ve stayed in; plush cream carpet and crisp white sheets on the king size bed, with glossy blue throw pillows and matching curtains over the tall, thin windows. Eddie starts stowing their cases away in the polished wooden closets, while Richie pulls the curtains back to look down on the back yard, most of it taken up by the wide stone patio.

“Eds,” he says, happily. “Remember when we went camping on Mike’s farm, and you told me I’d get cancer from eating burnt marshmallows?” 

“Yes...” says Eddie suspiciously, suddenly popping up at Richie’s elbow and peering down at the stylish grey garden furniture.

“There’s a fire-pit down there,” he says, throwing an arm over Eddie’s shoulders. “We can recreate that happy memory all over again.”

“Yeah,” sighs Eddie, in an exaggeratedly dreamy voice. “That was the night you sat too close to the campfire and your shoelaces caught fire, we can recreate that too if you want.”

Richie nods as he turns away from the window, padding back across the room and sitting down on the end of the bed, blinking furiously behind his glasses. He remembers that too, vividly, as Eddie had been the one to notice and throw a cup of soda over his feet and scold him for being an idiot, and fourteen-year-old Richie had stared at Eddie’s furious face, eyes gleaming in the flickering firelight, and thought, _I am fucked_.

Eddie looks down at him now, his face still all dimples and big brown eyes, and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“You okay?” he says. “I promise I won’t really throw your ancient Converse into the fire pit.”

“Hey,” Richie protests, and his voice is definitely wavering now. “These are vintage.”

“Really?”

“Well,” he sniffs. “I bought them in the nineties.”

This gets a soft laugh out of Eddie, and he sits down next to Richie on the bed, nudging him softly.

“I can’t believe you did this,” Richie says, eventually. “Like, hired this place and got everyone out here and...” He shoves his glasses up into his hair and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, still determined not to cry. He can cry later, when he’s had a couple of drinks he can blame it on. 

Eddie sits patiently, one hand on Richie’s thigh, stroking a little back-and-forth rhythm over the seam of Richie’s jeans with his thumb, until Richie takes a big, shivery breath, and thinks he might be ready to look at him again. He replaces his glasses and gives Eddie a smile which he thinks is only sixty-percent wobbly and pathetic. Eddie returns it at least. 

“Come on,” Eddie says eventually. “Let’s go annoy the others for a bit, and then I absolutely need a shower before we go out to eat. Cheer up, it’s your birthday — you can wear the ugliest fucking shirt you have to dinner and I won’t even give you shit for it.”

***

They split up into two cars — Eddie’s and Ben’s — for the drive into downtown Flagstaff to make their dinner reservation for seven, and by the time they’ve parked and climbed out of the cars the sun has already set. The streets just beyond the fence around the parking lot are busy with people coming in and out of the restaurants and bars, light and noise spilling out into the cooling evening air. 

Their restaurant turns out to be a bar and grill that takes up a huge corner plot, jazzy music playing invitingly through the open windows and several people already eating alfresco at the little tables set up on the terrace outside. They follow Eddie inside and he gives his name to a smiling server, who takes them through the main body of the restaurant and into a private booth tucked away in the back, almost entirely hidden from the rest of the crowd by a big screen painted with cacti. There’s a huge round table already set up for eight people, and for a second Richie is reminded vividly of their first night in Derry, the night that had started so well, surrounded by all his best friends and teasing Eddie Kaspbrak for the first time in decades, before remembering why they were all really there. But then Stan is guiding him into a seat and taking the one to his right, and Eddie sits down on his left and smiles at him, and this table is covered in party hats and noise-makers and birthday confetti, and the image melts away again. 

At least they won’t end up with fortune cookies this time. 

They’re a loud party and by the time they’ve ordered drinks, finished off several sharing plates of appetisers and are just starting their entrees, Richie can understand why Eddie booked a private booth for them. 

“It wasn’t my fault!” Eddie insists, waving his fork around dangerously close to Richie’s glasses. “I _dropped_ the popcorn, I didn’t _throw_ it at them, I didn’t have a death wish.”

“I totally thought our days were numbered Eds,” Richie agrees.

“So why the fuck would you throw soda at them as well?” Eddie demands, his eyebrows scrunched together in outrage. Bill breaks into hysterics at the expression on his face, Mike fights his own giggles to hold the video camera steady and next to Stan Patty is wiping tears of laughter from her face.

“Because…” Richie trails off. The truth is, when thirteen-year-old Eddie had accidentally dropped popcorn on Bowers and his goons in the Capitol movie theatre, Richie’s first thought had been to try and redirect their rage against _him_ so that they might leave Eddie alone. Thanks to Eddie’s big mouth this had not worked, and they’d both had to run for their lives, but Richie still squirms at the thought of admitting this in front of everyone. “If we were going to die, I thought we might as well go out with a bang, they were gonna try and kill us either way. Anyway, it was _you_ who started shouting at them, that’s when they actually gave chase.”

“They started shouting stuff at you first,” Eddie says quietly, and Richie nods, because Richie remembers exactly what they had shouted, what they had called him and why he had felt so much worse because it was in front of Eddie.

“You spent all your time shouting at guys twice your size because of Richie,” says Bill, with a nostalgic smile. 

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, and turns to Richie. “A wasted childhood getting punched in the face in your defence only to turn around and have you immediately shove leaves down my shirt or something.”

Richie pulls a face, and doesn’t answer, because the truth is he was always so overwhelmed at the ferocity with which Eddie would face down an objectively terrifying monster like Bowers just for _him_ that he had been left with no choice but to do something obnoxious and distracting so he wouldn’t ruin his own life by kissing Eddie’s stupid, cute little face.

“You were so funny Eddie,” says Bev warmly. “You spent all your time calling Richie a dickhead and the minute anyone else so much as looked at him funny you were ready to start biting people.”

“Yeah well,” Eddie says moodily, pouting a little as his cheeks turn pink. “You were a dickhead, but it didn’t mean anyone else was allowed to say it.”

Richie taps his foot against Eddie’s under the table, and Eddie finally consents to smile at him, a small, secretive thing that calls an answering smile onto Richie’s face too. 

The servers eventually remove their plates and return a few moments later with a cake that they set down in front of him, decorated with white and pink frosting and iced with the words _happy birthday Trashmouth_ along with a picture of Oscar the Grouch in his little garbage can.

“You guys _suck_ ,” he laughs, and then Bill stands up, tapping his wineglass with his fork and clearing his throat obnoxiously loud. 

“We’re here today to celebrate the momentous occasion that is the birth of Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier,” he says, in a tone so affectedly serious it’s almost a Voice, and he grins at Richie. “We all lived for twenty-whatever years without listening to a constant stream of jokes about Eddie’s mom, and I honestly don’t know how we did it,” he says, ducking when Eddie throws a noisemaker at him. “You were one of my best friends when you were a skinny, obnoxious, frog-faced little kid and you’re one of my best friends now. The last few years have genuinely been a lot less fun than they would have been if I had remembered you, and I’m really glad to have you back. Happy birthday Richie!” 

He raises his glass and the others follow suit, and Richie blinks furiously because he’s still not ready to burst into tears in front of them all, but Bill is definitely testing him with that little speech.

“Oh God,” he says, lifting his glasses to rub his eyes. “No one look at me for a minute.” 

Stan picks up the lighter that the server left with the cake and lights the candles, and Richie replaces his glasses just in time for Eddie to look up at him, dark eyes reflecting the candlelight, and softly say, “make a wish Rich” and honestly, it comes as kind of a relief when the next thing Eddie does is to scoop up a load of frosting with his finger and wipe it across Richie’s nose, because who knows what Richie would have done otherwise. 

They’re almost out of the restaurant, standing in the low light of the entryway at the back of the building that will lead them out into the parking lot, while Bev wraps a scarf around her neck and Mike buttons up his coat, when a heavy hand lands on Richie’s shoulder and pulls.

“Richie fucking Tozier.”

He turns to see a guy about their own age, sporting a little goatee and wearing a pair of huge aviator sunglasses in his spiky hair, staring up at him with an expression of pure disgust on his face. He’s drunk, Richie sees it immediately in the haze over his eyes, the way he’s swaying very slightly on the spot, the sour smell of the beer on his breath. 

“That’s me,” Richie says, warily. Stan turns at the sound of his voice, and the other Losers follow suit until there’s a little semi-circle of people around Richie and this halfway-hammered idiot. The guy lets out a scoff. 

“Man, I used to be like your biggest fan. You said what people really thought, you know? I paid money to see your shows and now it turns out you’re actually a fucking faggot—”

The guy takes an aggressive step towards Richie and he tries to back away, bumping into a little table behind him as he does so. This idiot can barely keep himself upright and he’s not actually threatening in the least, but all of a sudden Richie’s a scared little nobody in an arcade full of staring eyes with no one in the world to back him up. 

But he’s not, because he’s forty-one and it’s not the 80s anymore and all his friends know the truth and they love him anyway and they’ve always got his back. Bill immediately pops up by Richie’s side, a placating hand out in front of him while he tries to talk the guy down in his calm, reasonable voice, but the guy is beyond that, barely looking at Bill as he stares Richie down and Richie’s so nervous that almost _laughs_ like a moron, which doesn’t exactly help the situation. The guy’s face contorts with anger and he barrels past Bill, his hands curled into fists, and Richie can’t back away any further because his ass is literally pressed against the table as it is, but then someone is in between him and this drunken asshole, shoving the guy away with a firm hand on his chest.

“You’re gonna back the fuck off,” says Eddie seriously, and the guy gives him a disparaging onceover. The top of Eddie’s head is about level with the bridge of this guy’s nose, and he goes to elbow Eddie out of the way, but that’s his mistake. An easy mistake to make perhaps, to take in Eddie’s height and dimples and big brown eyes and think of him as weak when he’s anything but. Eddie twists his hand in the guy’s shirt to get a better grip and Eddie may not be a big guy but he’s _strong_ ; this idiot is dealing with someone who literally threw a spear through a monster’s face, and an embarrassing little flutter starts up in Richie’s stomach.

“Listen buddy...” the guy slurs, trying to shove past Eddie to get at Richie again, but Eddie uses his grip on the guy’s shirt to pull him down to his own height, and Richie stares at him. Eddie’s face shifts into something Richie’s never seen before because Eddie is irritable and defensive and prickly sometimes but he’s hardly ever _angry_. But now a cold sort of fury takes over the lines of his face, and Richie wonders if this is how he looked just before he threw that spear, risking his own life to save Richie’s.

“I’m not your fucking buddy,” Eddie says coldly, almost nose-to-nose with the guy. His voice is quiet and serious and icy. “You think I’m afraid of you? Try me.”

The guy wrenches his shirt from Eddie’s grip and stands up straight, obviously trying to use the height difference to intimidate but Eddie just crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows at the guy. For the first time his gaze travels somewhere beyond Richie’s shoulders and Richie thinks it’s just hitting the guy that he’s vastly outnumbered in a very public place. But although Richie is backed up by Mike — who is even taller than he is — and Ben — who is built like a shed — the guy’s attention lands back on Eddie, and his face settles into something like resignation. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, and storms away from them, back into the restaurant. The tension drains out of them all immediately; Ben lets out a breath, Bill laughs a little in relief and Eddie’s fingertips graze over Richie’s wrist.

“Rich, are you—” His voice is soft, and he’s just sliding his hand down into Richie’s to slot their fingers together, but then the bar manager is rushing over to them and Eddie tuts irritably. “Hold on a minute.”

Eddie heads her off before she can actually reach them, eyebrows in a fierce frown as the words pour out of his mouth, making that karate chop hand motion he does when he’s really gearing up to pitch a fit. Richie’s shaking, leaning heavily against the table at his back, and he can feel the attention of the other Losers on him, six pairs of eyes searing into his back like laser beams. He should laugh, do a bit, put on a Voice – throw the back of his hand against his forehead, pretend to swoon, clutch his heart and gasp “my hero!” – but then Eddie glances over, gives him the tiniest of smiles and _winks_ , and Richie doesn’t trust himself to make it sound like a joke.

Then there’s a hand on his arm and he looks down at a mess of red curls.

“Come on,” says Bev, leading him firmly away from the others and towards the front door. “They can handle this, let’s take a breather.”

They head out into the parking lot, the cool night air and the distant sounds of traffic and music from the other bars helping to clear the fog inside Richie’s head. Richie sits down on a decorative wooden bench and Bev perches on a stone wall, swinging her legs like a kid as she lights up a cigarette.

“Wow...” she sighs, a cloud of smoke leaving her lips along with the words. She shakes her head. “I gotta be honest Rich, he didn’t almost punch a drunk asshole in my honour and even I’m swooning a little, so I assume you’ll be useless for the rest of the evening.”

“Oh, I’m not going to be able to look at him for at least three hours without getting hard,” he says with a nod. Bev snorts and kicks at him playfully. “I fucking hope someone was filming that cause I’m gonna watch it until my eyes fall out.”

“So, I see your theory that your childhood crush on Eddie would fade with exposure is going well then?”

Richie just stares at her, and she sighs sympathetically.

“You said this trip was about getting to know each other again,” she says. “Trying to find out if what you felt about him then is still how you feel about him now? You have your answer yet?”

Richie stares down at his clasped hands, squeezing his fingers together tightly, and takes a breath.

“I’m in love with him,” he says, still not looking at her. He’s never said the words out loud to another person before, but now it’s out there the rest comes pouring with it. “I have been the whole fucking time, I was an idiot to ever think otherwise. It was never just a crush, I _loved_ him when we were kids, and I loved him when I didn’t remember him and I...I love him now. He has changed, a little, but he’s still Eddie.” Richie closes his eyes and sighs. “Still my Eddie. And none the changes are bad ones really, so I’ve just spent this entire fucking trip falling in love with him all over again. I don’t know how I lived for twenty-four years without him. I don’t know how I’m supposed to ever live without him again.”

He finally looks up at Bev, who smiles at him.

“Who says you have to?” she says. Richie shrugs. “You could tell him.”

“I’ve thought about it,” he says softly. “A lot actually, since we left New York. It’s crazy — when we were kids, I didn’t even dare _think_ it around him, just in case he read it on my face or something. I thought if he ever found out how I felt he’d hate me. I thought it’d ruin everything, I thought he’d never speak to me again. But now...now I’m gay, and that is a thing that I can just be — and more than that, _Eddie’s_ gay. And sometimes he looks at me like...” Richie smiles softly, remembering Eddie’s secretive smile in Bill’s room in Derry, his laughter as he made Richie blush feeding him from their shared dessert in Florida, his soft brown eyes coaxing Richie out of a nightmare and back into reality, into his arms. Bev is smiling too, and Richie’s sighs again. “I almost kissed him,” he says. “Back when we were still in Florida. I was _this_ close and then my phone rang and the moment was just gone. But he’s my best friend on the goddamn planet, and if he doesn’t feel the same then I would lose him. I mean, he’d be sweet about it, but it wouldn’t be the same, there’d be this...thing, between us. It’s so much to risk.” He looks at Bev sharply. “How did you know, with you and Ben? How did you know it would be worth it?”

“Well, we didn’t know. This isn’t like clown magic, you don’t get to just _know_ things. Eventually one of you just...has to be brave.”

“That’s the thing Bev, I’m just not. Eddie’s the brave one, and I feel like if he felt the same he’d have done something about it by now.”

Bev pulls a face.

“Maybe, but he’s dealing with different things from you. I mean, you aren’t the one who married a woman, he’s still coming to terms with a lot of things, you know?”   
  
Bev glances through the window into the restaurant, and then slides off the wall, putting her cigarette out on the trashcan by the bench. She doesn’t sit back down again, but stands facing him, her arms folded across her chest.

“I have to tell you something,” she says, looking uncomfortable. “Before they all come out here.”

“Uh oh...”

“You know my friend Cary — you asked me about him, in my Instagram pictures?”

“Yes...” Richie’s stomach drops unpleasantly.

“He’s asked me a lot about Eddie since then. A _lot_. He knows Eddie’s been through the wringer — with the divorce and his job and coming out and everything — and I don’t think Eddie’s exactly impatient to start dating again, but...” She trails off with a shrug, and Richie stares at her.

“What are you saying to me Bev?”

“Eddie’s not gonna stay single forever Rich. Maybe it won’t be Cary, but eventually he’ll meet someone and—”

“I know he will,” says Richie quickly. “He should, he deserves to—”

“But aren’t you gonna wonder if it could’ve been you? If it _should’ve_ been? I think...” She wrinkles her nose at him thoughtfully.

“You think what?”

“Ben makes me _so_ happy, and to be around Stan and Patty for twenty minutes is to believe in true love. But you and Eddie...”

“Me and Eddie what?”

“If I believe in people being meant to be together, like actually made for each other — if I believe in soulmates — it’s because of you and Eddie.”

“Bev...” he breathes, stricken. “You can’t just...say things like that to me.” 

She slides an arm around his shoulders and squeezes a little, and she’s about to say something else when the door to the restaurant bursts open and the other Losers spill out into the night. Richie stands up and they all begin to walk — two-by-two — back towards the Escalade at the end of the shadowy lot.

“So,” says Richie, as Eddie falls into step beside him at the back of the line, “are we getting sued?”

“No,” says Eddie. “I spoke to the manager when I booked the table because I wanted to know if it would be okay for us to film in there. She just didn’t want us to put any footage of the fight online — as if we would. They kicked the guy out though."

“Cool...” Richie says absently, and Eddie frowns up at him. “Sorry, I’m just still thinking about you starting a bar-fight to defend my honour,” he says. Eddie scoffs.

“I didn’t start a bar-fight to defend your honour,” he says. “I _averted_ a bar-fight to defend your honour. Anyway, there wasn’t actually going to be a fight, he wasn’t that drunk. He realised he was never going to win against eight of us.”

“He realised he was never going to win against _you_ ,” Richie argues, throwing his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “I’m not going to lie, I’m a little turned on.”

Eddie rolls his eyes and shrugs Richie’s arm off his shoulder and it rapidly turns into a little shove-fight while they walk, but even in the dim glow of the streetlights, Richie can see the pink flush on Eddie’s cheeks, and smiles the entire time Ben’s driving them back. 

***

They’re supposed to be having a movie night when they all pile back into the sitting room of the house, but it’s been such a long time since all the Losers were together — and counting Patty, all eight of them have never been together before now — that they quickly get distracted, alternately reminiscing and catching each other up on current news, and passing the camera between them all to tell stories about Richie in honor of his birthday.

They’re sprawled all across the room, constantly moving around as different conversations crop up, but Richie’s been sitting sideways on the larger of the two sofas the whole time, leaning his back against one arm and pressing his feet against Eddie’s thigh, almost daring someone to take him away. Eventually Richie’s forced to get up to use the bathroom and when he comes back Eddie’s moved from his spot, curled up close between Ben and Mike on the other sofa, all of them staring down at the camera thoughtfully. Ben is alternately looking at the camera and reading something aloud from his phone, but Mike has an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and their faces are pressed close together as they try and follow whatever instructions Ben is giving them. 

Richie sighs dramatically as he drops back onto his sofa.

“I leave for five minutes and Mike immediately steals my man,” he says, catching the cushion Eddie throws at him while Mike laughs.

“I needed technical assistance,” Mike explains, holding up the camera, while Richie tries to make himself comfortable on the sofa, resolutely _not_ missing Eddie’s presence by his side because that would be pathetic. Whatever issues they’re having with the camera seem to be resolved, and Ben puts his phone onto the sofa cushion next to his thigh, but Eddie immediately grabs for it.

“Aw, is your lock screen a picture of Bev?” Eddie says, clicking the phone awake to reveal a snap of a smiling Bev. “What a romantic.”

“Doesn’t everyone do that?” asks Bev, digging her phone out of her pocket and flashing her own lock screen — a very dapper-looking Ben in a suit.

“Do they?” Eddie looks baffled. Stan and Patty both flash their own phones to confirm this, although Patty’s is a picture of both her and Stan, cuddled up together in front of a sunset beside the ocean.

“It’s like the twenty-first century version of having their picture in a locket,” says Ben, and Eddie laughs at this but not unkindly. His face looks oddly soft.

“What’s yours Eddie?” says Bill, and Eddie snorts.

“Well, it’s not a picture of my ex-wife.”

“Was it ever when you were still together?”

“No,” says Eddie, with a little frown. He digs his phone out of his pocket and squints at it. “It’s just this.” He flashes his phone at them to reveal a pattern of blue and green bubbles. “I think the phone came that way, I never changed it. You two are single as well, what’re yours?”

Bill finds his phone and shows the picture of all of the Losers in front of the _Welcome to Derry_ sign and Mike hands his phone over to Eddie for inspection — it’s a photo of himself and a handful of his friends in Florida, all standing together on the beach. Eddie looks put out.

“What’s yours Richie?” asks Ben, and Richie immediately wants to throw his phone out of the window. _Oh, it’s nothing weird, just this casual snap of me looking happier than I ever have in my entire adult life because I’ve got Eddie Kaspbrak in my arms, go back to talking about how that’s the most romantic thing in the world while I quietly die of embarrassment._ Ben’s looking up at him with innocent curiosity, and when he opens his mouth again Richie’s seriously considering just running from the room, but whatever Ben was about to say is lost when Eddie barrels over him in his fog-horn voice, waving Mike’s phone around and crowing about his socks-and-sandals combo in the beach picture. A minor scuffle ensues, starting with Eddie trying in vain to keep the phone away from Mike and ending with Mike effortlessly scooping Eddie up in his arms, bridal style, and depositing him back on the other sofa next to Richie.

“You can have your man back,” says Mike, grinning. “I don’t think I can live like this.”

“He is a handful,” Richie agrees, laughing when Eddie shoves him indignantly. Mike sits down again, and thankfully the conversation seems to have moved on, but Eddie nudges his shoulder softly.

“I thought you were gonna throw up for a second,” he says quietly. “What is your lock screen? Cheeky creep shot of Ben in the shower?”

Richie sighs, and hands his phone over, not looking at Eddie as he takes it and stares at the silly selfie of the two of them. But Eddie just laughs softly, and then tuts, handing the phone back.

“I feel like a weirdo now,” he says, messing about with his own phone, and then placing it down on the sofa between them so Richie can see that Eddie has changed his lock screen to the other selfie of the two of them leaving Derry, where they’re not mugging at the camera like they are in Richie’s, but pressed close together, smiling like all they needed in the world was to have each other back. 

*

Eventually they do decide to watch the movie, and Richie goes into the kitchen to grab some more snacks for everyone before they get started, but when he returns to the sitting room Eddie has spread out on their shared sofa, wrapped like a burrito in a fluffy white blanket. Richie scowls down at him and Eddie returns his scowl.

“Edward.”

“Richard.”

They both grin, but Eddie doesn’t move and Richie is forcibly reminded of the hammock in the clubhouse, with Eddie demanding he move and then giving up almost immediately to climb in with him. Their positions are reversed now, but Eddie’s looking up at him with twinkling eyes and a barely concealed smile. Just like he had looked on the floor of their motel room before Richie’s phone had interrupted them, when Richie had nearly kissed him and he'd sworn for a second that maybe Eddie would have let him. That maybe Eddie _wanted_ him to.

Raised eyebrows and set jaw. _Whatcha gonna do about it, Trashmouth?_

He immediately drapes himself on top of Eddie, as though he’s just a part of the sofa, albeit one that immediately starts swearing and fighting like a drowning cat. 

“Get _off_ me you fucking tree!”

“Hmm, what? Oh, I’m sorry Eds, I didn’t notice you down there!”

“Don’t make me kill you on your birthday.”

“You couldn’t — ow! Get your pointy-ass elbows out of my ribs you gremlin!” 

“Don’t you fucking dare start tickling me! I will strangle you with this blanket I swear to-"

“Children!” Stan snaps suddenly, and both Richie and Eddie immediately stop what they’re doing to stare at him guiltily. He’s sitting in one of the armchairs with a grinning Patty cuddled up in his lap, scowling at them both. “Can you please cut out this bullshit so we can watch a movie like grown-ups?”

“Way to go, _Eddie_ , you got us in trouble,” Richie says, propping himself up on his elbows. It’s a precarious position to be in, hovering over Eddie with most of his body pressed against Eddie’s, and before he can stop himself he lets his gaze land just for a second on Eddie’s mouth. Richie sees Eddie notice — his eyes widen slightly — before the corner of his mouth lifts in a crooked little smile.

“I'll show you trouble,” Eddie says, and immediately starts tickling Richie in the ribs until his arms give out and he lands heavily on top of Eddie again.

“Ow!” Eddie huffs, but he’s laughing until he notices Stan still scowling at them. He tuts and wriggles around like he’s trying to get comfortable, forcibly turning Richie around so that his back is against Eddie’s chest, and drapes the blanket over them both, enveloping Richie in warmth and that sweet, sunshiney scent.

“We'll be good now Stanley,” Eddie says. “No more fighting, promise.” He wraps both of his strong arms around Richie tightly and gives his cheek a quick kiss. “See?”

Stan rolls his eyes, but starts the film anyway, and even though no one’s looking at them anymore, Eddie keeps his arms wrapped tightly around Richie, one hand stroking a soothing pattern up and down Richie’s bicep. Richie stares at the TV blankly, glad that he’s lying against Eddie’s chest instead of the other way around, because there’s no way he could come up with a plausible excuse for the way his heart is hammering. 

He wonders if he’s imagining the way Eddie’s is. 

*

It’s well past one in the morning by the time the movie ends, and when Ben stands up to turn the lights on Richie watches everyone stand and stretch and rub their eyes and he’s reminded just how _old_ they’re getting. 

“I am going to bed,” Stan announces, grabbing Patty by the hand and leading her towards the staircase. “Happy birthday Richie.” He bends down and plants a kiss onto the top of Richie’s head, and Richie smiles sleepily up at them both when Patty does the same. 

“Us too,” Ben says, hauling Bev to her feet and then glancing worriedly around at the carnage they’ve left in the sitting room, bottles and snack wrappers and discarded shoes. “Um...” He looks warily at Eddie. “We’ll all help clean up in the morning Eddie,” he says, but Eddie just waves a hand at him tiredly. 

“I’m not sleeping in here,” he says. “I’m too tired to care if I don’t have to look at it.”

Bill and Mike follow Ben and Bev and then it’s just the two of them left in the empty sitting room, Eddie’s arms still around Richie’s chest. Richie can hear the other Losers upstairs as they pass on the landing, taking turns in the two bathrooms and settling themselves down for the night, but eventually the house falls silent.

Then Eddie sighs heavily.

“You’re going to make fun of me if I try and tidy up aren’t you?” he says, and Richie shifts around a little so he can look up at Eddie’s face, pinched with annoyance as he looks around at the messy room. 

“No,” he says, “but I will tell Ben you lied to him, are you ready to deal with the emotional weight of that?”

“Probably not,” Eddie admits, smiling reluctantly. “All right, are you ready to go to bed?”

“Edward Kaspbrak, are you trying to seduce me?” Richie gives him a lazy grin and Eddie snorts softly, punching him gently in the shoulder.

“I’m saying you’re old now and it’s way past your bedtime.”

“Yeah,” Richie admits, reluctantly pulling away from the cocoon of Eddie’s arms and stretching. “If we were still thirteen the night would be just getting started.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, “this would be the point we _would_ be drawing a moustache on Stan.”

“God, it really is a miracle he didn’t kill either of us.”

“Well, there’s time,” Eddie says, standing up and holding out his hands to pull Richie to his feet, then he gives the messy room another mournful glance.

“Nope,” says Richie, switching their places so he’s behind Eddie and covering his eyes with his hands. “You said if you couldn’t see it, it didn’t bother you. I’m blinkering you, like a twitchy racehorse.” He nudges Eddie forwards, trying to get him to walk towards the stairs, but Eddie stubbornly doesn’t budge.

“This is literally the blind leading the blind,” Eddie says, although Richie can hear the smile in his voice.

“What, don’t you trust me?” he says, and Eddie gives a dramatic shudder. “What?”

“I think that’s a trigger phrase for half my childhood trauma,” he says. “As soon as you said that I knew I was going to end up in trouble.” 

Despite this protest, he does start to move and they drag themselves up the stairs and into their bedroom, and Eddie drops tiredly onto the end of the bed. Richie opens the closet to find his suitcase, and he’s just started digging around in his bag for some clothes to sleep in when Eddie shoots up off the end of the bed like he’s been electrocuted.

“Oh!” 

Richie looks over at him, almost able to see the lightbulb above his head.

“I forgot—” He cuts himself off with a frown and eases past Richie to the door. 

“Forgot what?”

“I...you get ready for bed, I’ll be back in a minute.”

He disappears out of the room. Richie can hear his light, bouncy footsteps as he heads back downstairs and fights the momentary urge to just follow him, but instead changes his clothes and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he gets back their bedroom is still empty, so he climbs into the bed and waits. A couple of minutes later Eddie returns, with a small canvas shopping bag and the video camera.

“What’s going on?” 

Eddie smiles at him, pointing the camera at his face and perching on the edge of the bed, his hip pressed against Richie’s knee and the shopping bag on his lap.

“I forgot to give you your birthday present,” he says, twisting around slightly and tipping the contents of the bag onto the bedspread.

A sizeable shower of envelopes falls from it and fans out across the covers, followed by a little box that lands with a bump on top of the debris. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” Eddie says sternly, and Richie pouts a little but does as he’s told, feeling Eddie lean towards him slightly to place the box on his outspread palms. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

It’s a box. Specifically, it’s a very old, faded Clarks shoebox, about half the size of a regular one as though it once held a pair of children’s shoes. Richie eyes it critically.

“I appreciate the thought Eds, but I think you might have underestimated my shoe size just a bit.” Eddie is still pointing the camera at him, and Richie’s tired but not _that_ tired, so he shoots Eddie a grin. “Your mother would never have made this mistake, guys with big feet all have a big—” He shuts up as Eddie takes back the box one-handed and hits him on the top of the head with it.

“Stop being a jackass and open it.” 

Richie lifts the lid and instead of shoes, the small box is brimming with photographs — glossy, professional shots from school, little strips from photo booths and dozens and dozens of Polaroids, all showing the same seven faces.

“What the fuck?” His voice is barely even a whisper but it’s still obvious when it breaks on the last word, and his eyes suddenly flood with the tears he’s done _so fucking well_ to hold back all day. He slides his glasses up into his hair to wipe his face and Eddie gives a soft chuckle.

“Oh,” he says, “I think I broke him.”

Eddie turns the camera off and tosses it onto the bedspread, and then shuffles around so that they’re both leaning against the headboard. Richie slides an arm around his shoulders, squeezing him tightly and taking the opportunity to bury his teary face in Eddie’s hair. 

“Rich, you okay?” 

Richie nods against the top of Eddie’s head, not quite trusting himself to speak, but Eddie doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. He gives Richie’s knee a comforting little squeeze and waits.

“Sorry,” Richie sniffs, after a couple of minutes. “I’ve been on the verge all day, I think this was my limit.” 

He eases away from Eddie a little to scrub his face fiercely and then sets his glasses back onto his nose so he can actually look at the impossible miracle that is a box full of photographs from his childhood.

“Where did you even find all these?” He turns to look at Eddie, who grins at him widely.

“So, remember I told you when I left my apartment in New York I went into my mysterious bullshit closet for no reason? That’s what I took.”

Richie stares at him.

“You had a shoebox full of photos of us this whole time?”

“Yep,” says Eddie, his face brimming with laughter at the absurdity. “I must have taken it when I left Derry and then when I left my mom’s place to move in with Myra and then _again_ when me and Myra bought the apartment in Brooklyn, and just never looked in it.” He shrugs. “Advanced Clown Bullshit, maybe. But it seemed really fucking important to me at the time that I didn’t leave without it. It was with the stuff I gave to Ben and Bev to look after, they brought it with them so I could give it to you.”

“Eddie...” Richie’s voice is embarrassingly soft as he sighs Eddie’s name. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.” His stupid fucking eyes are watering again and he stops to sniff and wipe his face, but Eddie just presses in closer and leans his head against Richie’s shoulder.

“Yeah yeah,” he says, softly. “You’re welcome, you big baby.” 

Once Richie’s up to around eighty-percent sure he’s not going to burst into hysterical tears, they turn the camera back on and rifle through the pictures to tell the stories that go with them, paying particular attention to the Polaroids; Ben, Bill and Mike pulling identical strong-man poses outside the clubhouse, Eddie and Bev dancing under the canopy of leaves in the Barrens, Stan shoving away a grinning Richie as he tries to ruffle his hair — and the two of them. RichieandEddie, a photographic timeline of their blossoming friendship, starting with a faded picture of both of them at around seven, sitting on Richie’s bedroom floor in a pile of Lego. It feels personal in a way that making fun of pictures of the others doesn’t, and Richie turns the camera off again. 

“Oh man,” says Eddie suddenly, plucking a photo from the box, “look at _this_ one.”

He holds it up for Richie’s inspection, and Richie laughs as he holds his phone up for comparison.

“I _knew_ this stupid picture looked familiar,” he says, as he looks at their little thirteen-year-old selves pulling the same crazy faces they’d pulled just seven months ago on their way out of Derry. They’re nearing the end of the collection now, and when Richie lifts the last photo from the bottom of the box, he can feel the sting of tears in his eyes again. It’s the two of them again, but they’re older now — fifteen or sixteen maybe, not long before Eddie left Derry — and they’re not pulling stupid faces this time. Eddie’s eyes are closed tight as he laughs brightly, freckly nose scrunched up and dimples out in full force, and Richie’s got his chin resting on Eddie’s shoulder, gazing up at him _adoringly_. Eddie grabs his own phone this time, comparing it to the picture he had chosen for his lock screen, but he doesn’t laugh.

“Weren’t we cute?” he says, his voice soft and a little sad. 

“Cute cute cute,” Richie agrees weakly, feeling almost relieved when Eddie starts to put the photos back in the box and gathering up the scattered pile of envelopes.

“What is all this?” he asks, as Eddie starts to shove them back into the shopping bag.

“Oh nothing,” says Eddie. “It’s just my mail, Ben and Bev brought it along with these pictures, I’m getting it redirected to their place while I’m doing this with you.” He stares down into the canvas bag thoughtfully, as though it’s a crystal ball showing him visions of the future. “My divorce paperwork is in here,” he says quietly, and Richie almost cracks his neck turning to look at him.

“What?” He twists around so he can look at Eddie properly, dislodging the box of photos from his lap slightly. “You didn’t tell me that, you didn’t tell me it was all done.”

“I only found out like a week ago,” says Eddie. “I was busy planning all this for your birthday, I sort of forgot.”

“That’s a big fucking thing to forget,” says Richie, nudging Eddie’s shoulder. “That’s what we should've been celebrating.”

“No, we were celebrating your birthday,” says Eddie, definitively. “We can celebrate this another time.”

So, Eddie’s single. Well, technically speaking he and Myra have been separated for months, but he’s actually legally single now, can do what he wants, could even get married again now.

 _Eddie Tozier Eddie Tozier Eddie Tozier._

“So what now Eds?” Richie says, because if he doesn’t say something there’s a chance he’ll say _that_ out loud. “Now you’re free and single? And _out_. Are you ready to get your cute butt on Grindr?”

“No!” Eddie laughs, crinkling up his nose in distaste.

“Okay, maybe not Grindr,” Richie says, shifting uncomfortably. “But you must...I mean, I know you said you weren’t ready to start dating but that was a while ago now. Don’t you...feel better about it?”

Richie’s not sure what he’s asking, why he’s asking, what he hopes Eddie’s going to say, but Eddie just smiles.

“Dating's kinda hard when you're travelling the country in a car for a YouTube show,” he says, but Richie doesn’t smile back.

“That’s true,” he says, and Eddie suddenly looks concerned.

“Hey, no, I didn’t mean—"

“Eddie, you know if you want to—"

“It’s not important to me right now—"

“But if you wanted to...to try and meet someone. I know you kind of put everything to one side to come and do this with me and I don’t want—” He drags his hands through his hair anxiously. “I just want you to be happy, you just got your life back...”

“Hey,” says Eddie sharply. “I just got _you_ back.” He grabs his phone, and digs around in the box of photographs, eventually coming up with the one that matches his lock screen. “Look at us,” he says softly, “then and now. You think I ever smiled like that in between? You think I was ever really happy without you?” He throws the photo back into the shoebox and stares up at Richie intensely. “If I’ve got you, I don’t need anyone else.”

“But why? I'm just—”

“—just Richie fucking Tozier,” says Eddie, with a smile. “But it’s all I’ve ever needed you to be.”

“Eddie...” Richie’s heart hammers like it’s trying to break free from his chest, there’s no way Eddie can’t hear it echoing through the silent house, but he’s not pulling away, and it’s four in the morning now so no one’s calling to interrupt them this time, and Richie twists himself towards Eddie desperately— 

—and kicks the box of photographs off the side of the bed. It lands with a dull thud on the carpet, making Eddie jump and sending the photographs sliding across the floor.

“Klutz,” Eddie scolds softly, sliding from the bed and crouching down to gather the pictures back into the box, apparently oblivious to Richie on the verge of tearing out his hair in frustration. He scoops all of the photographs back into the box and places it on the dressing table.

“I’m gonna go brush my teeth,” he says softly, and pads out of the room, and for a second Richie genuinely considers screaming into his pillow. He was so close, closer even than he’d been back in their motel before the phone rang, so close to just saying _fuck it_ , risking everything just to kiss Eddie Kaspbrak just one time.

But maybe not one time, because Eddie looks at him like no one else ever has and Richie’s so sure if he’d just been brave and leaned in, Eddie wouldn’t have pulled away. Any minute now Eddie’s going to be back in the room, he’s going to slide into bed next to Richie and then...they could talk, Richie could ask, Richie could throw caution to the wind and just kiss him.

By the time Eddie reappears in the doorway, Richie still hasn’t fully made up his mind and there’s a brief moment of blinding panic before he’s distracted.

“Eddie, do you — is that my t-shirt?”

Eddie’s wearing a pair of his usual soft grey sleep shorts, but over the top is an ancient _Masters of the Universe_ shirt that hangs down to his mid-thigh, the collar loose enough on him that Richie can see the soft little triangle in between his collarbones. Eddie glances down at it, and then back up at Richie, his cheeks a little pink.

“Not anymore,” he says, with that wily, crooked little smile that sets Richie’s pulse racing and _oh God_ , the little shit just isn’t playing fair. He turns out the lights and climbs into bed and he’s right there and Richie’s so sure...

But he could be wrong, and if he’s wrong then that means Eddie scrambling away from him, stammering out apologies and platitudes and then backing out of the room so he doesn’t have to share a bed with Richie, and that’s not how Richie wants to end what’s basically been one of the best days of his entire fucking life.

He can be wrong in the morning.

“Happy birthday Rich,” Eddie whispers, and Richie leans towards him and presses a light kiss to the top of his head, and then quickly turns away before the temptation to go any further becomes overwhelming. They lie still and silent for several minutes, until Eddie shifts around behind him and suddenly there’s a line of warmth all down Richie’s back and Eddie’s strong arm around his waist. Richie inhales sharply at the contact and Eddie hesitates, but when Richie stays quiet and still Eddie tightens his grip and presses his forehead into the spot between Richie’s shoulder blades, and Richie has to turn his face slightly to grin into his pillow.

It’s not so different from his birthday sleepovers with Eddie when they were kids really, with the butterflies in his stomach and the way his heart’s hammering, aware of every single inch of them that’s touching, but now there’s no shame, no guilt, no fear — just hope, hope, hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SORRY! I swear I will let them kiss eventually.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	10. I Fell Heavy Into Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But it all has to mean something, Richie’s sure of it now. The touching and the teasing and the flirting sure, but the care and the closeness and the intimacy too — this has never come easy to Richie before in his life, and he’s pretty sure it hasn’t for Eddie either.  
> So, when Richie teases him about his tiny fucking running shorts and Eddie flips him off but also blushes bright red up to his ears, it means something. That Eddie cooks vegetables and chops salad and fusses until Richie eats them, but also never forget which flavor of Pop Tarts Richie likes best, it means something.
> 
> The fact that this house now has four free bedrooms and he and Eddie are still sleeping in the same one, the fact that neither of them had even mentioned the possibility of separating…it has to mean something.
> 
> Richie’s just not sure exactly what. He knows what he hopes it means though, and sure maybe he hasn’t had great experiences with hoping for things and maybe he isn’t naturally an optimist but he’s not stupid either.
> 
> These days whenever he catches himself looking at Eddie, Eddie’s usually looking straight back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pretty short chapter by my usual standards and it is definitely plot-irrelevant — it very nearly got cut completely, but the story kind of speeds up after this, so I left it in as a sort of calm, domestic interlude.
> 
> No CWs this time, but vague warnings for sappiness.

_Well I came home_

_Like a stone_

_And I fell heavy into your arms._

_These days of dust_

_Which we've known_

_Will blow away_

_With this new sun._

_I Will Wait — Mumford & Sons_

_The LA sun is just beginning to dip behind the scrubby hills, hitting the big, uncovered windows and casting the apartment in warm gold light. The heat of it falls on Richie's shoulders comfortingly and he's sure that if he turned towards the window, the sky brushed in waves of rose and peach would make for quite a sight._

_But he doesn’t turn around. He's got a good view from here._

_Eddie lifts the last plate from the sink and rinses the suds from it, placing it carefully on the drying rack and then pulling the plug to let the water drain from the sink. Richie knows he's nowhere near done — not with a sink to scrub and then his hands to meticulously disinfect — but there’s only so much self-control he can be expected to have when Eddie’s barefoot in their kitchen, his shorts riding up a little when he stretches to reveal more smooth tanned skin._

_Richie hops down from the sideboard and sidles up to Eddie, places both his hands on Eddie’s hips and then wraps his arms all the way around his narrow waist, pressing him back against Richie’s chest._

_“I'm not finished,” he protests, but Richie can hear the smile in his voice even if he can't see it on his face, and he’s already reaching for a towel to dry his hands. He's in Richie’s t-shirt, old and stretched out and so big on him that Richie doesn’t even have to adjust it to get his mouth on the junction of Eddie’s neck, pressing his teeth gently against the muscle and making Eddie hum with pleasure and arch back against him. The movement gives Richie’s easy access to a lot more of Eddie’s throat and presses Eddie’s ass flush against his cock, which has its own opinion on how quickly Eddie could be wrapping this up. Richie grinds against him, his hands holding Eddie’s hips firm but his movements slow and lazy — he's not really in any hurry. They have all night, after all, and every night after that._

_Eddie turns and smiles at him, freckly and sun-kissed in the soft light, eyes gleaming with affection and promise. He rises up to his tippy-toes and Richie ducks to meet him halfway, pressing their mouths together gently. Eddie slides his hands up the front of Richie’s shirt, one thumb stroking purposefully over a nipple, making Richie shiver and smile into Eddie’s mouth._

_“You ready for bed?” Eddie says quietly when he pulls away, and Richie grins at him._

_“Edward Kaspbrak,” he says quietly, “are you trying to seduce me?”_

_“Maybe,” says Eddie, leaning up to kiss him again but pulling away the minute Richie goes to deepen the kiss to something more. Tease. “Is it working?”_

_“Definitely.”_

_Eddie leads him to the bedroom in a practiced dance — Eddie’s walking backwards and Richie’s not tearing his gaze away from Eddie slowly unbuttoning Richie’s shirt just to look at something as mundane as_ furniture _, but they navigate the layout of the room easily. They’ve done this before. They’ll do it again._

_As they cross the threshold into the bedroom, Eddie lets go of him, switching them around so that Richie’s knees hit the end of the bed and fold, and Eddie climbs into his lap, bracketing Richie’s hips with his strong thighs. He’s taller than Richie this way, winding his hands into Richie’s hair to move Richie exactly where he wants him, kissing him hard enough to make Richie’s toes curl in the carpet. Eddie’s got all the buttons on Richie’s shirt undone now, and he eases it off his shoulders, down his arms, tossing it to one side without ever taking his mouth off Richie’s. He pulls back eventually to tug his own t-shirt over his head and Richie runs his thumbs along the defined ridges of Eddie’s abs, placing a gentle kiss to the starburst scar on his chest, drawing a fond laugh out of Eddie, a familiar little ritual._

_Richie lies back on the bed, but Eddie stays upright, running his hands and eyes over Richie’s torso lovingly, eventually leaning forwards to press hot, insistent kisses up the line of Richie’s throat, biting softly at the spot just underneath his ear, drawing a soft moan from Richie’s chest. Eddie pulls back, scrapes the hair back from Richie’s face gently, tugging just a little and smirking when Richie moans again, before nipping at Richie’s mouth. Richie reaches around to slip his hands under the waistband of Eddie’s shorts, stroking for a moment over soft, warm skin before he grabs two handfuls of Eddie’s gorgeous ass and grinds up against him forcefully. Eddie gives a soft little gasp, and plants both his hands on Richie’s chest, rutting against him indulgently until they’re both hard and panting. Eddie leans in closer, pressing a kiss to the corner of Richie’s mouth, sweet and tender._

_“Rich…” He sighs blissfully, and Richie reaches up to caress his face, running his thumb over the bandage stuck to his cheek._

_Wait._

_“Rich, I think I got it!” Eddie’s eyes are wide now, the hazy affection and simmering want in his eyes turned frantic._

_No. No no no._

_“Rich, I think I got it! I really think I did!”_

_The tepid beige walls of Richie’s bedroom start to dissolve, taking the carpet and the dresser and the bed around them floating upwards in fragments like ash, all the warmth and the fragrance of clean laundry and soap and Eddie’s skin fading away to be replaced with the stink of the sewers, the greywater, the creeping, slithering cold._

_His hand is still on Eddie’s cheek and he knows what to do, he knows, but he can’t make himself move, can’t tear his gaze away from Eddie’s beaming face. The ghost of pressure against his mouth, as though Eddie had just kissed him, and as Eddie’s gaze tracks down to his mouth Richie knows it’s too late._

_He’s done it before. He’ll do it again._

_Richie’s always too late._

_“Richie—”_

*

Richie shocks back into consciousness and the darkness pressing against him is so thick and so absolute that for a moment he has no idea what’s happening. His heartbeat is clamoring in his ears, he can practically taste his own panic in the back of his throat, and the slimy cold of the cavern under the Neibolt house is still creeping over his skin.

He presses his hands tight over his eyes. 

_In for four, hold for seven, out for eight._

He opens his eyes again, blinking, and slowly the room comes into shadowy focus. He can just make out the dramatic sweep of the long blue drapes, the shadowy figure of the weird, Art Deco lamp in the corner, and there’s a warm, solid weight snuffling into a pillow next to him.

So Eddie isn’t kissing him in their bedroom in LA, but he’s not bleeding out in a cave under Maine either, so waking up in the Airbnb in Arizona is an okay middle ground as far as Richie is concerned. He's definitely woken up in a worse state than this before — he's not crying, he can breathe and he doesn’t feel as though he's going to throw up half his organs. Richie of six months ago would definitely consider this a win, might not even have had to wake up Eddie three-thousand miles away for comfort.

Although… 

He shifts carefully, not wanting to wake Eddie but with the vague thought crossing his mind that snuggling a little closer to him — warm and sleepy and breathing — might help shake the last of the nightmare. Richie turns on his side and instantly becomes aware that the cold from the cavern isn’t the only physical side effect still lingering into wakefulness.

They're so vivid, is the thing, and he’d only spent seconds under Neibolt and most of the dream in his apartment, with Eddie running his hands over Richie’s skin and crushing their bodies together and kissing him like he’s never been kissed in reality — languid and indulgent and sweet.

God, no one’s ever been sweet with him before.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath and palms himself uncomfortably through his boxers, trying desperately to think of anything other than Eddie’s mouth and hands and cock.

But Richie’s cursed, obviously, because at that point Eddie stirs, turning over and nestling a little closer to him. His face ends up pressed against Richie’s bicep and one hand lands on Richie’s chest and the minute Richie feels the faintest whisper of the front of Eddie’s shorts against his leg he’s angling away from him frantically.

“Rich?” Eddie mumbles sleepily, adjusting so that his face is level with the side of Richie’s neck, Eddie’s voice low and rough with sleep almost directly in his ear. Richie shivers. “You okay? Bad dream?”

Eddie’s still mostly asleep — thank God — but Richie nods anyway.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m okay. Go back to sleep Eds.”

Eddie hums comfortably, and then reaches up to pat Richie on the head — _there there_ — which is so stupid and cute that Richie can’t hold in a soft snort of laughter. The sound makes Eddie smile in his sleep, and Richie thinks if they both lay very still and very quiet for a few minutes, maybe give him some time to conjure a good, vivid memory of Eddie’s mom then maybe he'll be able to calm down.

Then Eddie moves again and, Richie thinks, tries to kiss his cheek, but Eddie is half-conscious at best and the room is still pitch black and instead Eddie’s warm, soft mouth hits him just underneath his jaw. The simmering heat of arousal in Richie's abdomen suddenly shoots up his spine, and Richie has to grit his teeth so he doesn’t moan out loud.

Richie needs to get a grip, and possibly get out of this bed. If Eddie actually wakes up there is going to be a situation Richie is not going to be able to explain without spontaneously combusting with embarrassment, and there’s a good chance if Richie looks directly into Eddie’s big soulful eyes right now he's just going to come in his pants like he's thirteen again, and that would leave him no choice but to throw himself into the fire pit. 

As soon as Eddie’s breathing evens out again, Richie grabs his glasses, slides from the bed and quickly eases himself out of the room. He’s tempted for a second to head into the bathroom and deal with the situation; he's so hard it’s verging on painful and Richie doesn’t think it would take long. But the dream is still so fresh in his mind…there’s no way he can get a hand around himself right now and not think about Eddie. He made his peace back in LA with not being fully responsible for what might happen in his subconscious, but masturbating while actively thinking about his best friend is definitely crossing some kind of line.

Instead, he forces himself downstairs, the cool press of the smooth wooden floorboards against his bare feet grounding him a little, and by the time he drops down onto the sofa he's not not hard, but he isn’t shaking anymore either. He leans forwards, elbows planted on his thighs, and presses his face into his hands for a second.

It’s been a while since he’s had a nightmare about Eddie’s death, but even though he hasn’t caved to anyone’s suggestions about therapy yet, it’s not exactly hard to psychoanalyze it. Like a lot of his nightmares, it had started off by showing him something good, something he wants, but as always when dream-Richie allows himself to reach out just a little, the genre changes from gay rom-com to tragic horror movie. It’s hardly a coincidence that he's dreaming about Eddie dying violently while in bed with him just as Richie’s starting to let himself not only think about how much he wants Eddie, but the possibility that Eddie might want him too.

It’s been a weird week, is the thing.

Conscious of their friends having to fly out so far — and wanting to make the most of staying somewhere with a real kitchen and a decent shower — Eddie had rented the house for two weeks. Stan and Patty, as the only Losers with ordinary jobs, had been the first to leave a couple of days after Richie’s birthday, followed by Bill and Mike heading back to LA for a promotional event for Bill’s new movie, and finally Ben and Bev back to New York, meaning that for almost an entire week it had just been the two of them in the house.

Obviously, they’ve lived in each other’s pockets for months now, but there’s no getting away from the fact that this is domestic in a way that living out of motels and guest rooms and the car just isn’t. They’ve been splitting chores and doing grocery shopping and bickering good-naturedly about their cereal preferences. It feels like practice for the month or so they’re about to spend in LA, but in Richie’s head _that_ feels like a practice for...well, he’s not sure, but the fact that their road trip is now ending in California instead of New York is definitely giving Richie ideas. Images in his head of the two of them cooking in Richie’s kitchen, or watching movies tangled on his couch, or their toothbrushes sitting side-by-side in the same little mug. Eddie filling the empty space with stuff and noise and life, and of how it might finally feel like home if Richie wasn’t alone there.

And there is also the fact that his dick has been on fucking _hair-trigger_ the entire week. He’s not sure what it is, possibly something about the fact that Richie knows objectively they’re acting like a couple, that Eddie is so tactile with him, that Eddie just went to great effort and expense to make sure Richie had a great birthday which is…fuck, it’s romantic okay? It is, and Richie would actually expire on the spot if any of his friends found out but Richie _wants_ all of that. He had watched Bev smile dreamily at her engagement ring and watched Patty stealing a mouthful of Stan's coffee and thought that maybe more than the kissing and the sex, that what he wanted was something softer, the romance and the casual intimacy and the familiarity of knowing that you belong to one person and that they also belong to you.

And then he had thought of instinctively swapping burger ingredients in Florida, the muscle-memory way they still know how to share a bed, and how Eddie had remembered his birthday traditions and his disappointment when Went and Maggie had not been able to find any photographs of the Losers, and he thinks maybe he has that already.

But it was hard to look at Eddie bending over to lace his running shoes in the morning and not think, _the kissing and the sex would definitely be a nice bonus though_.

But Richie knows that the main thing getting him popping spontaneous boners a dozen times a day is that he's pretty sure Eddie has started to notice the way Richie looks at him and he doesn’t mind, maybe even _wants_ Richie to look at him, wouldn’t even mind if Richie wanted to _touch_ him.

Just the thought makes him shiver, which is ridiculous, because he touches Eddie all the time — ruffling his hair and pinching his cheeks and shoving him around, just like when they were thirteen and Richie would jump on any excuse to have his hands on Eddie. And just like when he was thirteen, he’s spent the entire week getting half hard over objectively ridiculous things, like the way Eddie sucks his entire bottom lip into his mouth when he’s thinking, or the indulgent little moan he does when he stretches first thing in the morning. 

Sometimes the universe is just out to get him though, like Bev announcing the day after Richie’s birthday that while they were all in the same place, she needed to take their measurements for their wedding outfits, which meant Richie had blindly wandered downstairs one morning to the sight of Eddie wearing nothing but an impatient scowl and tight black briefs, stretching out his muscular legs for Bev's tape measure. 

He's definitely not proud of the noise he made, or the way he flailed back upstairs in a panic.

But it all has to mean something, Richie’s sure of it now. The touching and the teasing and the flirting sure, but the care and the closeness and the intimacy too — this has never come easy to Richie before in his life, and he’s pretty sure it hasn’t for Eddie either.  
So, when Richie teases him about his tiny fucking running shorts and Eddie flips him off but also blushes bright red up to his ears, it means something. That Eddie cooks vegetables and chops salad and fusses until Richie eats them, but also never forget which flavor of Pop Tarts Richie likes best, it means something.

The fact that this house now has four free bedrooms and he and Eddie are still sleeping in the same one, the fact that neither of them had even mentioned the possibility of separating…it has to mean something.

Richie’s just not sure exactly what. He knows what he hopes it means though, and sure maybe he hasn’t had great experiences with hoping for things and maybe he isn’t naturally an optimist but he’s not stupid either.

These days whenever he catches himself looking at Eddie, Eddie’s usually looking straight back.

Richie’s sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. A little early-morning contemplation has helped calm him down, but he’s not confident enough to curl up in a warm bed next to Eddie just yet. He forces himself to his feet and heads into the kitchen with the vague idea of making a drink. The big metal clock on the wall tells him it’s almost three in the morning, which is either way too late or way too early to be making coffee, but after an intense conversation with Stan about caffeine and anxiety, Eddie’s been trying to reduce his coffee consumption from his usual twelve gallons a day, trading it out for various different teas. Richie fills the electric kettle with water and sets it to boil, before digging a mug and Eddie’s tin of assorted teabags out of the cupboard. He flips open the lid and starts to pull a few of them out at random, individually wrapped in bright paper envelopes bearing the words _chamomile_ or _peppermint_ or _spiced apple_ , and tries to remember which one Eddie drinks before bed.

“What’re you doing?”

Eddie’s voice is quiet, but so unexpected in the profound silence that Richie still jumps about three feet in the air and drops Eddie’s meticulously organized teabags onto the kitchen floor, spilling them everywhere.

“Jesus Christ!” He clamps a hand over his pounding heart and scowls at Eddie. “You literally scared the balls right back inside of me man.”

“Thanks for that vivid imagery,” says Eddie, with a little smirk, as he bends down and starts picking up the teabags. “You stealing my teabags? You made fun of me for about half an hour about turning into a snobby old lady and now you’re sneaking around in the middle of the night to steal them?” 

“That doesn’t sound like me,” says Richie. “And I wasn’t making fun of you, I was just pointing out that every time I tell you to ease off the coffee you bite me, but when Stan says it suddenly it’s sage life advice.”

“Well, we have a special bond forged by coming back from the dead together,” Eddie says lightly, standing up and placing the teabags back on the sideboard. “And never once have I _bitten_ you.” 

_In my dream you did_ , Richie thinks before he can help himself, and quickly sits down at the kitchen island so that Eddie can only see him from the waist up. Eddie grabs another mug out of the cupboard and then shakes the tea tin at Richie enticingly, like he's trying to tempt a stubborn cat into a pet carrier with a packet of treats.

“Which kind do you want?” Eddie asks.

“I can make the tea.”

“You just threw the box of teabags all over the floor, forgive me for not trusting you with the kettle full of boiling water,” Eddie says, with a raised eyebrow. 

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “What tastes the least like wet leaves?”

“Chamomile is supposed to be relaxing, if you want to go back to bed, but…” Eddie hesitates, his eyes big and round with concern. “You have a nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s been a while,” Eddie says carefully, and Richie nods. Eddie’s still looking at him curiously and the thing is, Richie has been getting better at sharing the details of some of his nightmares. Finally telling Eddie what he'd seen in the deadlights and letting go of some of that guilt had made it a little easier to talk about, and every time he spins a nightmare into a little story for Eddie, he feels the weight of it leave him somehow, like he's breathing it out with the words. But what’s he supposed to say right now? _I had a dream that we were lying in my bed in LA and you had your tongue in my mouth and your hands in my hair and I can barely look at you without getting hard again_? That’s probably a bit much to expect Eddie to deal with at three in the morning. 

Eventually Eddie seems to accept that Richie isn’t going to offer any more details, and selects a teabag for him. He lifts the kettle to pour water in both their mugs and the muscle in his bicep clenches, he stretches to put the kettle back onto the sideboard and his sleep shorts ride even further up his toned legs and even the way he frowns thoughtfully while he chooses a spoon is driving Richie crazy. 

Eddie heads into the sitting room with both mugs of tea and Richie follows, sitting down next to him on one of the big blue sofas and trying not to be obvious when Eddie’s fingers brush against Richie’s as he takes his tea. He wraps both hands around the mug to keep them out of trouble, and gazes out of the big window. They didn’t close the drapes before they went to bed and Richie only turned on the wall-mounted lamps, so the sitting room is shadowy and cozy and even from indoors it’s easy to see the stars sprinkled across the inky dark sky. He’s lived so long in big cities that Richie is almost tempted to drag Eddie out onto the patio to look at the sky, but it’s probably pretty chilly out there and he’s definitely feeling too fragile for something that intimate.

“You don’t have to tell me what the dream was about,” Eddie says eventually, “but…you okay?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, with a nod. “Yeah I…I just woke up and I think I sort of forgot where I was for a second, and it was dark and quiet and…” He trails off, but Eddie’s expression is soft with understanding.

“You can wake me up, you know?”

“I…well, obviously I did wake you up,” Richie says, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I mean on purpose dummy. Like you did before, when you were still in LA, if you had a nightmare, you’d call me.”

“I’m not gonna drag you out of bed every time I have a bad dream Eds, it’s not like you can do anything.”

“I know,” Eddie concedes. “But we could, I don’t know, watch a movie or listen to music or…fucking…anything that isn’t you sitting in the dark by yourself.” He’s frowning as he says this but Richie gives a begrudging laugh, and Eddie face lights up suddenly. “I know what we can do!” 

He leans forward to put his mug down on the coffee table, and digs around in the pocket of his hoodie until he comes up with his phone, tapping away at it until Richie hears the little _zwoop_ sound as it connects to the Bluetooth speakers. 

“Bev made me a playlist,” he says. “Of songs that we used to listen to when we were kids, we were talking about it a couple of days ago.” He smiles at Richie, sweet and sleepy. “You up for a little nostalgia?”

“Always, Eddie my love,” says Richie, raising his mug in a silent toast as Eddie’s expression scrunches into a scowl.

“If that song is on here, I’m going back to bed.”

*

_I Want You to Want Me – Cheap Trick_

“Ha,” says Eddie, with a grin. “Ben loves this song.”

“I bet he does,” Richie says. “Captain Hanscom of the pining tweens brigade.”

Richie tries not to think about the fact that he spent his entire childhood pining over his own feisty little Loser, and said feisty Loser gives him a grin.

“Yeah, half of this is going on their wedding playlist, Bev already told me.”

“There’s gonna be a fuck-ton of New Kids on here right?”

“Probably,” Eddie smiles again, but the teasing edge is smoothed over with fondness and he’s so gorgeous when he smiles like that, loving and affection thinking about his friends, that Richie can barely look at him.

_I want you to want me_

_I need you to need me_

Eddie looks up at him over the rim of his mug, big earnest eyes under his ridiculous bed-hair, drinking tea at three in the morning so that Richie won’t be scared or alone, and _fuck_ , he’s lovely, Richie _loves_ him, he should just fucking _say it_ —

“So,” Richie says, his voice bordering on hysterical, “Bill and Mike, huh?”

Eddie turns towards him so fast that Richie’s sure he’s about to get shouted at — but fuck, that’s still better than anything else that was dancing on the tip of Richie’s tongue ready to escape and ruin him. But when Richie looks up, Eddie’s nodding fervently.

“Right?!” He takes an enthusiastic slurp of his tea, suddenly looking much younger, and Richie eases a little closer to him. “I dunno what’s going on there but man, it is something.”

“I'm really glad you said that,” says Richie. “I thought maybe I was looking at it through gay-tinted lenses.”

“Well, if you’re doing it, I’m doing it too,” Eddie says, grinning widely, and Richie feels a sudden swell of pride for him at how bright and comfortable he looks. Eddie Kaspbrak, who just five months ago threw up after admitting it to himself for the first time, grinning and joking about it. What a tough little fucker.

“Man,” Richie shakes his head, “I can’t believe this. I spent basically my whole childhood thinking I was the only gay person in the entire fucking state of Maine, and it turns out my best friend was also gay the whole time,” he presses the end of Eddie’s nose, “and my other two best friends — I dunno, but there’s a lot of eye-contact and lingering touches and it doesn’t look very heterosexual to me. All that anxiety for nothing.” Richie's voice is light and he’s like, seventy percent joking, but Eddie’s smile slips a little and he nods seriously.

“I know,” he says, and then the grin returns. “Ben seems pretty straight though. I wouldn’t want to put a bet on Bev.”

“Stan?” asks Richie, and Eddie snorts.

“Are you shitting me? He is strictly Patty-sexual. Have you seen the way he looks at her? Like she’s the only woman on the planet.” He sighs, and it’s wistful and a little sad. “It’s weird, when I first met her, when they came to New York for Bev’s party, obviously I’d only just left Myra and I was still feeling...pretty shitty about the whole thing, and me and Bev were teasing them, saying they shouldn’t act so happy in front of us, but...” He frowns thoughtfully. “They’re so in love with each other that it kind of hurt to be around them, but actually it convinced me I’d done the right thing. I don’t think I ever really thought people fell in love like that until I saw them together. It made me think it was possible,” he says quietly. “You know, that someone could love me like that, and I could love someone back like that too. It felt like proof that people really do find the one. They’re like soulmates or something.”

He says it so softly, and when he looks up at Richie with those big brown eyes and gives him a shy smile, Richie thinks he might melt. He tries desperately not to think of Bev saying the same thing about them, but it’s playing on a loop through his mind — _if I believe in soulmates it's because of you and Eddie_.

Eddie frowns.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Richie has no idea how he’s looking at Eddie — probably with hearts in his eyes — and he fights to school his face into something neutral.  
“I just...swear you used to be more cynical than this,” he says, and to his relief Eddie laughs.

“Are you shitting me?” he says. “I died. Stan died. We were brought back to life by a magic turtle — I’m never being cynical about anything ever again. I’m going to give money to carol singers and start reading poetry and listening to classical music. I’m gonna watch Queer Eye and cry.”

“Oh, I definitely do that,” Richie says and Eddie smiles, and then looks at him seriously.

_I’d love you to love me._

“You believe in soulmates Rich?”

“Yes.”

*

_Eddie My Love – The Teen Queens_

“Nope.”

“Don’t skip it!”

“I'm skipping it.”

“Eddie _my_ love.”

“I'm gonna kill Bev.”

*

_Everywhere – Fleetwood Mac_

“I remember you and Bev dancing to this in the Barrens!” Richie says, the memory bright and vivid in his mind. 

Eddie ranting in protest at Bev insisting she lead and then eventually giving in when it became clear he had no fucking idea where to put his feet, eyebrows pulled together in concentration and then, as the song ended, pink-faced and grinning with exertion and laughter. Richie had watched them and gritted his teeth against the swirling vortex of feeling in his chest — warm and proud like he always was when he got to see Eddie let go of some of his anxieties and just enjoy something, but something cloudy and dark brewing underneath at the sight of him in someone else’s arms. 

“She’s the reason I realised I was gay you know?” Richie says eventually, and Eddie smirks at him.

“Not Stan?” he says, and Richie pokes him in the thigh with his toes.

“I did not have a crush on Stan!” He insists, and Eddie laughs. “But I didn’t have a crush on Bev either. She was so cool, and tough and funny and like...like she _was_ pretty, I get why teeny Bill and Ben were obsessed with her, but even though I thought she was pretty, it was kind of...” He tails off, not sure of the right word, but Eddie hums in acknowledgement.

“Objective,” he supplies, and Richie nods.

“Exactly. Like, I noticed, but it didn’t make me feel anything. Not like—” He cuts himself off in panic, but Eddie is still grinning like a demon.

“Like Stan?”

Richie plucks the soggy, lukewarm teabag out of his mug with the little string attached to it and flings it at Eddie, hitting him with a satisfying _thwap_ right in the middle of his forehead and making him screech in indignation.

“Ew Richie! That’s so gross!”

“Stop being a little shit then!” 

*

_Lovesong — The Cure_

“I love this song,” Richie whispers. He can hardly hear his own voice over the haunting chords of the one song that was on every mixtape he ever made for Eddie, buried in between chart hits and movie soundtrack favourites and novelty songs meant to annoy him, like a message in invisible ink, hidden but waiting to be found.

Eddie is quiet for a moment, and Richie wonders if he even heard him, if he’d ever heard him back then.

“I love it too.”

*

_Dancing in the Dark — Bruce Springsteen_

“No,” says Eddie instantly, the minute the opening guitar riff breaks the silence, and Richie grins.

The summer after the clown, after the Tilt-a-Whirl incident and after Eddie had saved Richie from disaster by throwing soda over his feet, Richie had been pretty sure that any day Eddie was going to look at him for a second too long and he would go up in flames just like his trailing shoelaces. Then a day came when just the two of them had been in the clubhouse, listening to Richie’s old boom box and despite the fact that every other square inch of the place was unoccupied they had both been in the hammock. Eddie had been humming along to the music and reading a comic with his tongue between his front teeth and Richie had felt like everywhere their skin was touching hummed, like the static before a storm, electric with potential, and Eddie had looked up from his comic right into Richie’s eyes, and Richie had thought, _I’m gonna kiss him_. He hadn’t, but the ferocity of the thought had scared him so much that he had launched himself from the hammock with so much force it spun and flipped Eddie out onto the dusty floor, squawking with indignation. 

But this song had been playing, and it was an old favourite of Eddie's, so Richie hauled him up by his hands and in a fit of giddiness, they'd spun each other round the clubhouse and danced without letting go of each other until the song was over. 

“Please?” Richie pouts and flutters his eyelashes.

“No,” says Eddie, fully grinning now.

“You said we could do anything I wanted to cheer me up after my very terrible and traumatising nightmare,” he says, laying it on thick enough to make Eddie sigh and roll his eyes. 

“I did say that,” he concedes, and Richie stands up and holds out a hand to Eddie, who takes it with a bitten back smile and allows himself to be pulled to his feet and twirled around the sitting room, just as he’d allowed Richie to twirl him around the clubhouse at fourteen, stepping on each other’s toes and trying to trip each other and giggling like idiots. 

As the song fades out, Richie is gripped with daring, bolstered by the low light and the stars and Eddie’s hands on the back of his neck. He braces one hand in between Eddie’s shoulder blades and laces their fingers together with the other, and slowly, carefully, he dips Eddie backwards. He doesn’t pretend to drop him, doesn’t make a stupid face and doesn’t do anything to pass it off as a joke, because it _isn’t_. It all _means_ something. As Richie lifts him back upright, Eddie rests his head on Richie’s chest, and Richie thinks maybe it means exactly what he hopes it means. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we go, the last "nothing really happens" chapter. 
> 
> Next time Richie and Eddie head back to LA for fun, domestic bliss and some miscommunication...
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	11. Say That You Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months ago, when Richie had first started planning this trip, if he’d been feeling indulgent enough to imagine Eddie wanting to keep Richie close once they were done, he’d pictured them in New York, mostly because it was easy to match Eddie — sharp and fast-talking and spiky — with New York City, like two puzzle pieces designed and carved out to fit together.
> 
> But dammit, if California Eddie hasn’t been a sight to behold. It’d taken him all of three days of LA sunshine to tan a deep, buttery gold, bringing out the freckles across his nose and his shoulders and making his brown eyes deep and melting in comparison. He’s grown out his hair a little, traded out his gelled-to-perfection choirboy parting for loose, untidy waves that make him look unkempt and youthful and carefree. Now when he thinks of Eddie in New York, he thinks of unhappy, tightly wound, Edward Kaspbrak speaking Eddie. Eddie here in California, in LA, in Richie’s home…he looks like a wild animal returned to its natural habitat, like he’s just exhaled for the first time in twenty-five years. Eddie belongs here, Richie’s sure of it, and not just because staying in LA means staying with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In contrast to the last chapter's uncharacteristic brevity, this one is an absolute unit, so apologies for that. In my defence a LOT happens here and the last handful of chapters should be much more manageable in length.

_May you find what you need_

_In the darkest tunnel so deep down_

_May you hold onto me_

_(Say that you will give me all of your time)_

_Just at least another time around_

_(Say that it’s nothing)_

_The Problem with The Big Picture Is That it’s Hard to See – Mayday Parade_

**HoHoHope** @hohohope Everything about the video of Richie’s birthday makes me want to cry…

**GoingDownNow** @dandan Eddie in his running gear is all I want to look at for the foreseeable future thanks

**RichieLives** @ellabella So going to Vegas was just another excuse to joke about being married??

They eventually leave the house in Arizona and Richie doesn’t say anything to Eddie. They get lost in the Grand Canyon National Park, drunk on brightly-colored cocktails in Vegas and have to spend the night in the back of the car halfway across the Mojave Desert, and Richie doesn’t say anything to Eddie. Eventually, at the tail-end of March, they park the Escalade in the empty garage in Richie’s apartment complex, and Richie still doesn’t say anything to Eddie.

They drag their suitcases up into the apartment and Richie finds to his surprise that he’s almost glad to be there. Not relieved to be home exactly, it isn’t like he’s missed the place, but more an anticipatory tingle at the prospect of the next few weeks here.

Eddie is making his customary checks; opening doors, peeping into cupboards and nosing through each room like Richie’s home is just another suspicious motel room they’re staying in for a couple of nights. When he’s done, he stands in the middle of the sitting room, looking a little puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” Richie stares at him apprehensively. The place is a little soulless he supposes, a little impersonal, with its bare cream walls and tasteful grey furniture and several standing bookshelves that are still mostly empty, but he didn’t think it was _that_ bad. “Steve had a cleaner come in here like three days ago and groceries delivered yesterday, so I know for sure we’ve stayed in worse places.”

Eddie frowns at him.

“It’s not that, it’s just…I don’t know.” He shrugs, and then raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s a nice place! It just isn’t very…you. I kind of pictured anywhere you lived being covered in old movie posters and weird souvenirs from places you’ve toured and stuff,” he says, and then laughs at himself slightly. “I think my mental picture was just your bedroom from when we were kids, but apartment sized.”

Richie shrugs as he wanders into the kitchen, opening the fridge to inspect its contents and poking absently through cartons of fruit, packages of cheese, eggs and salad and three different kinds of milk. 

“I haven’t actually had this place for long,” he says, “and what with touring and stuff I guess I haven’t spent that much time here. It’s not really home yet.”

He neglects to mention that actually he’s lived here nearly two years and he’s already figuring out what will make the place feel like home, and it’s not posters or tacky souvenirs or anything Richie can just buy.

“So, I noticed that the guest room is kind of occupied…” Eddie says eventually, and Richie turns slightly to see him drop onto the sofa, staring over at Richie questioningly.

“Oh…I didn’t think of that.”

The place is technically a two-bed, but Richie had not been in a position in his life where he was having many overnight guests, and the second bedroom has slowly morphed into an office/dumping ground, taken up entirely by a desk, an extra closet and several boxes of junk from his old place that he still hasn’t unpacked.

“It’s okay,” Eddie says easily. “I can take the couch or something.”

Richie closes the fridge.

“I’m not going to make you sleep on a couch for a month,” Richie says, annoyed with himself. He should have asked Steve to get the cleaning crew to clear out the spare bedroom, pretty much everything in there could catch fire and Richie wouldn’t miss it. This month was supposed to be about getting Eddie to like it in LA and Richie couldn’t even be bothered to clear out a room for him. He has a sudden vision of Eddie offering to find a hotel, or to stay with Bill and Mike in Bill’s four-bedroom house in Santa Monica, and panics. “But you know, we’ve been sharing a bed half the time we’re on the road, what’s a few more weeks?”

Rather than turning around to face Eddie, Richie keeps his gaze trained safely on the closed fridge door, but from the sitting room Eddie just hums softly.

“Well…if you’re sure,” he says, and then hesitates a little. “I thought you might…you know…want a bit of a break from me? I know I’m not the easiest person to be stuck with for this long, and I bet Bill has a spare room if you want me to go—”

“No,” Richie’s voice is sharp, and turns abruptly. “I’m not _stuck_ with you, I dragged _you_ all this way, remember? I never want a break from you.”

Eddie blinks at him, looking a little taken aback, but then nods slowly.

“Okay,” he says. “We can share for another few weeks. It’s only until the wedding, and then we’ll be back on the road anyway. I guess we’ll figure out what to do after that when…when we have to.”

“Yeah,” says Richie softly, “we’ve got time.”

*

Steve had handed them a jam-packed schedule pretty much the second they set foot in California, and their first two weeks back in LA passes by so fast that Richie barely has time to register the shape his life is slowly blossoming into.

Richie does a magazine interview about his coming out and Eddie fits a spice rack in the kitchen. They make a couple of radio appearances together and Richie clears out an entire closet in the bedroom for Eddie’s clothes. They both guest on a podcast and Richie’s bathroom cabinet gets taken over by face creams and dental floss and an array of different hair products. They move seamlessly around each other in the kitchen while they cook meals together and Richie washes the dishes while Eddie puts them away. Eddie swims in the shared pool and makes friends with Richie’s neighbours, bonding over smoothie recipes and good places to go jogging. They trade chores and take turns to pick out movies and shout at each other from opposite ends of a couch while they play the Playstation, legs tangled together while they kick and tease and laugh, like a weird upgraded version of their hammock.

At the start of their third week, they’re taking part in the opening of an LGBTQ bookshop in Inglewood. Richie had been apprehensive about it, but Steve had been insistent, Eddie had been enthusiastic and Richie had been soft enough to let himself be talked into it. So now he’s here, sitting on the wall outside the shop in the blaring midday sun while customers and journalists and students mill around and occasionally stop to ask him for a picture or an autograph. He’s wearing a pair of floral board shorts in clashing colors so ugly that Eddie had made him stand still for a picture before they even left the apartment so he could send it to Bev for emotional support before having to appear in public with Richie and his wardrobe choices. Eddie of six months ago wouldn’t have had room to criticize, with his “normal straight guy” uniform of polo shirts and chinos, or shapeless black work suits, but encouragement from Bev has helped him discover his own tastes in clothes, and it’s usually pretty good. Today’s outfit is a thin pink t-shirt and heathery-purple shorts that show off a _lot_ of toned, tanned leg, and now Richie’s watching Eddie laugh while the guy who owns the bookshop paints rainbow stripes over his cheeks and tells him he has thighs to die for.

So, it’s been two fucking weeks in California — over a month since Richie’s birthday — and he still hasn’t told Eddie anything.

Well, it’s not like he and Eddie haven’t talked _at all_ since they left Arizona; neither of them can keep their mouths shut for very long, and it’s not like proximity to each other makes either of them quieter. They’ve even veered _close_ to talking about something real, a couple of times. When the sun had started to set on the Grand Canyon Park, Eddie had made a joke about them never getting out and having to live like wild hermits in a cave, and Richie had said that there was no one he would rather live in a cave with than Eddie. When they had been forced to stop for the night in the desert after realizing that they were both too tired to safely reach their next pit stop, Richie had expected Eddie to completely freak out. He had even told him as much, but Eddie had just settled his head against Richie’s chest in the back seat of the Escalade, and said it was hard to be afraid if Richie was with him.

Vegas had been particularly hard on Richie’s nerves. They’d walked past a glitzy, tacky chapel and Richie had made the joke about them getting drunkenly hitched, (It’s Vegas Eds, it’s the thing to do!) expecting Eddie to roll his eyes or shove him away or make some kind of joke. Instead he’d given Richie a smile that was definitely teasing but also oddly soft, and said “Aw, you gonna make a Tozier out of me?” and suddenly it hadn’t seemed so funny.

So sure, they’ve talked, but they haven’t _talked._ Richie had woken up the morning after his birthday still wrapped up in Eddie’s arms and sworn to himself that today would be the day. He’d made himself the same promise every morning since then and kicked himself every evening for being such a coward. But if he’d been wrong in that house in Arizona, he’d have been wrong in front of all of the Losers, and if he’d have been wrong two weeks ago when they first got to LA, he’d have been wrong just as Eddie was about to live in his apartment for a month and if he’s wrong now—

Fine, so he’s making excuses.

Everything that’s happened since Richie’s birthday, since Florida, since they left New York even, it all points to one conclusion; that there’s a chance — however small — that Eddie Kaspbrak might be falling in love with him. The giddy, champagne-bubble thrill that the thought sends through him is so strong it’s almost nauseating, because who ever thought _that_ would happen? Certainly not Richie, but now he’s at a point in his life where Eddie Kaspbrak had looked him straight in the eye and said, “If I’ve got you, I don’t need anybody else” and still the voice in Richie’s head whispers that he’s just seeing what he wants to see.

The thing is, if he tells Eddie now and he _is_ wrong, they still have to attend Ben and Bev’s wedding the weekend after next, be around the Losers, be happy for their friends. If Eddie doesn’t love him back then maybe, one day, Richie might be able to get over that and find a way to live with it. But certainly not in the space of two weeks, not in time for the awkwardness to have dissipated enough that it won’t ruin the wedding of two of his best friends.

So…he can wait a little longer.

But he thinks about the spice rack. He thinks about the whiteboard Eddie stuck to the fridge with magnets so they could write down what meetings and appearances and appointments they had to remember, but had eventually devolved into them leaving each other stupid notes and doodles and reminders to pick up oat milk. He thinks about the fact that they get up in the morning and sometimes they spend the entire day together and sometimes they have separate engagements or Richie writes while Eddie takes off to the gym and they can go hours without seeing each other but they still crawl into the same bed at night. How just as Richie’s falling asleep, Eddie still winds his arm around Richie’s waist and holds him close.

Richie will never be able to live in that apartment alone again. It feels like home for the first time in two years because now it’s Eddie’s home, and Richie can’t cope with the idea that this state of domestic bliss — something Richie’s never had, never even dared to wish for — might be taken away again.

But Richie watches Eddie stand up and smile at something his impromptu make-up artist is saying to him, and thinks a good test would be to ask Eddie to stay in LA when they get back here. Six months ago, when Richie had first started planning this trip, if he’d been feeling indulgent enough to imagine Eddie wanting to keep Richie close once they were done, he’d pictured them in New York. Part of it had been Richie’s natural desire to bend over backwards for Eddie, and it had definitely helped that _Eddie_ had once daydreamed about them living in the city together, however short-lived and doomed those daydreams had been. But mostly it was because it was easy to match Eddie — sharp and fast-talking and spiky — with New York City, like two puzzle pieces designed and carved out to fit together.

But dammit, if California Eddie hasn’t been a sight to behold. It’d taken him all of three days of LA sunshine to tan a deep, buttery gold, bringing out the freckles across his nose and his shoulders and making his brown eyes deep and melting in comparison. He’s grown out his hair a little, traded out his gelled-to-perfection choirboy parting for loose, untidy waves that make him look unkempt and youthful and carefree. Now when he thinks of Eddie in New York, he thinks of unhappy, tightly wound, _Edward Kaspbrak speaking_ Eddie. Eddie here in California, in LA, in Richie’s home…he looks like a wild animal returned to its natural habitat, like he’s just exhaled for the first time in twenty-five years. Eddie belongs here, Richie’s sure of it, and _not_ just because staying in LA means staying with him.

It’ll take a little burst of courage he thinks, but he can ask Eddie not to go back to New York when their trip ends, to make his move to LA permanent. If Eddie says no, that’s a pretty definitive answer to any of the other questions Richie might want to ask him, but doesn’t involve Richie scraping together what’s left of his soul and offering it out to Eddie on bended knee, only to have it rejected right in time for them to be each other’s date to a wedding. But if Eddie says _yes,_ then Richie will be able to stop feeling like there’s a huge fucking hourglass hanging over his head, slowly trickling away the time he has to tell Eddie everything, pretty much guaranteeing he’ll fuck it up in panic.

It fits in with the philosophy that’s kept him going this whole time — a question, if not the whole question.

Eddie pops up suddenly in front of him, grinning from rainbow painted cheek to rainbow painted cheek. There are multi-coloured sparkles in his hair and blue eyeliner making his eyes look fucking dreamy, and Richie wants to grab him by the shoulders and kiss the glitter from his lips.

Eddie smiles teasingly and holds up a make-up palette.

“Your turn.”

*

“Steve Covall…do you fucking know what time it is?”

Richie quickly puts the phone onto speaker so he can throw it back onto the nightstand and shove his face into the pillow.

“I know it’s early Richie—”

“Really fucking early.”

“—but I just spoke to some people about something and I need an answer from you now. Is Eddie around?”

“No,” says Richie, taking advantage of that fact to starfish out across the whole bed. “Like you he hates and despises sleep so he’s already out running.” He drags himself into a sitting position to ensure he doesn’t fall asleep mid-conversation, and blindly reaches out for his glasses. “What’s up Steve?”

“I just spoke to some people at Comedy Central,” he says, and Richie turns towards the phone so fast he nearly pokes himself in the eye with the arm of his glasses. “They’re filming a live stand-up showcase — a few acts that do a half-hour each with a compere in between — and they’ve asked if you’d be available. It’s small, something we’d probably have turned down before, but…” Steve trails off, almost apologetically, but Richie’s nodding enthusiastically.

“No Steve, I get it, a complete rebrand did mean starting from scratch a little.”

“Okay, well firstly I wanted to check that you _have_ a half-hour set.”

“I do,” he says. “I finally do. Fully work-shopped and tested by comedy connoisseur Edward F. Kaspbrak.”

Richie stands up and stretches, then switches the phone off speaker and presses it to his ear, wandering out into the silent kitchen where Eddie has left coffee in the machine and a meticulous drawing on the whiteboard of what Richie presumably looks like when he’s sleeping, sprawled across the bed with his mouth hanging open. Richie grins at it helplessly.

“Good, that’s a good start. The other thing is, it’s going out on…” Steve makes an impatient noise and there’s the rustling of papers on the other end of the line. “The Thursday before Beverley Marsh’s wedding, I didn’t know how far in advance you guys were planning to be back in New York.”

“We were going to fly out on the Thursday,” Richie says. Thursday was supposed to be the day of flights and then recovering from flights, followed by a Losers-only event on the Friday and the actual wedding on the Saturday. “But…I’ll speak to Ben and Bev…if we fly out the Friday morning instead, I’d still be around for all the important stuff. They’ll understand.”

“Okay, I’m saying yes to this right now. There’s a live audience as well…I’ll see if they’ll comp a ticket for Eddie. Maybe Bill Denbrough as well, and…what’s the hot librarian friend called? Is it Mike?”

“Eddie, Bill and Hot Librarian Mike in the audience,” he says, in an exaggeratedly dreamy voice, but he’s smiling. His first real return to stand-up comedy and three of his oldest friends will be right there to witness it. “Eddie’s gonna heckle me so bad.”

“I should hope so,” says Steve. “He’s funnier than you are. Speaking of Eddie…”

“Yes,” says Richie, suspiciously, wiping away Eddie’s drawing and picking up the pen.

“You guys are trending on Twitter again, pictures of you from when you opened Rainbow Reads at the start of the week are popping up online.” Steve clears his throat awkwardly, and Richie freezes before the pen even touches the whiteboard. Steve is _never_ awkward. “You look really good Richie.”

“Okay…”

“You look healthy, is what I mean. Like it’s been a while since you drank half a bottle of whiskey by yourself.”

“I don’t remember the last time I did that,” Richie says, honestly. “Probably September.”

“Well…it shows.”

Richie replaces the pen — his drawing of Eddie shouting at the self-service machine in Whole Foods will have to wait — and starts to pour himself some coffee.

“I’m not going teetotal or anything, did you see the number of cocktails we drank in Vegas?” He’s being a shit, mostly, and Steve does him a solid and laughs, but even Richie can see the difference between drinking a few stupidly-named cocktails in a fun bar with his best friend and drinking half a bottle of something he’d barely even tasted, by himself, to numb the edges of the misery he could never quite work out why he was feeling.

“You look happy Richie, really happy, probably for the first time since I’ve known you. And if it’s because you came out then that’s _great_ and if it’s because of all the new stuff you’re doing for your career then that’s great too, but if it’s because of Eddie—”

“If it’s because of Eddie, what?” Richie bristles, defensive.

“I dunno. Don’t let him go again? He told me his place in New York sold,” Steve says, and Richie frowns.

“He did?”

Eddie had found out the day after their event at the bookshop and Richie had thought it might be the perfect opportunity to float the idea of Eddie staying in California permanently. But Eddie had needed to have conversations not just with the realtor but with his lawyer and with Myra herself, and he’d been so tense and unhappy about the whole thing that Richie had felt like a selfish asshole for even considering it.

Steve laughs.

“Aw, you mad someone else is talking to your boyfriend?”

“Don’t be a dick,” says Richie, and Steve laughs again, but kindly this time.

“He called to check some things about the footage from the bookshop and we just talked a bit. I like him Richie, you know I do. I just wondered what happens after you guys are done? Like…is he getting a new place back East? Is he staying here? Are you guys going back to Vegas to a drive-through chapel and—”

“It is too fucking early in the morning for this,” Richie grouses. “I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it. There’s not much left for him in New York and I want him to stay but…” He sighs, and Steve must take pity on him.

“Okay,” he says gently. “I’m just glad you’re finally letting someone take care of you.”

“He _does_ take care of me,” Richie admits, “because lecturing people about their health is Eddie’s love language. But…I don’t know…he kind of makes me want to take better care of myself too.”

“Richie?”

“Yes?”

“Marry him.”

*

On Sunday morning, Richie wakes up in bed alone and for a second he figures he's in for the treat of heading out into the kitchen and waiting for Eddie to get in from his run, flushed and sweaty. Then he hears Eddie’s voice coming from the sitting room, and he’s not shouting exactly but he certainly doesn’t sound like he’s enjoying the conversation. It's the kind of tense, unhappy voice that Richie had almost forgotten Eddie was capable of until his apartment sold and he’d had to deal with some of the remnants of his old life.

He pads out into the sitting room just as Eddie hangs up the phone and throws it onto the couch, dropping down next to it and scrubbing his hands through his already untidy hair. He's clearly having some kind of crisis and Richie is ready to shift into supportive friend mode, but he takes a second just to appreciate the sight of Eddie Kaspbrak curled up on his sofa, all bed head and bare feet and borrowed, too-big t-shirt.

“What’s going on Eds?”

Eddie raises his head from his hands as Richie passes him to get to the kitchen, and accepts the cup of coffee Richie pours him with a tired smile.

“I'm sorry, did I wake you up?” he says as Richie sits down, leaning his back against the arm rest so he can face Eddie, tuck his feet beneath Eddie’s warm, bare thigh.

“It’s okay,” Richie shrugs. “I've got a meeting with the Comedy Central guys after lunch, I had to get up sometime. What’s the drama?”

“It was my realtor,” Eddie explains, and he looks at Richie apologetically. “God, you're gonna be so mad at me,” he says, his voice small and his jaw clenched slightly.

“Hey, what?” Richie rubs his toes against Eddie’s leg in what he hopes is a convincingly soothing way. Eddie doesn’t bat him away at least. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Eddie squirms a little, and a little knot of panic forms in Richie’s stomach. Maybe Eddie’s decided not to sell his apartment in New York after all, maybe he’s already making plans to move back East. God, they should have had this conversation by now, weeks ago even, why the fuck has Richie been putting it off?

“It’s about my old apartment,” Eddie hedges, but that’s obvious, what else would his realtor in New York be calling about? Anticipation flutters in Richie’s chest.

Eddie takes a breath.

“Myra was supposed to be clearing out the place but she just dropped off her keys with the real estate people, she’s gone to stay with her sister in New Jersey, which means they need me to go and clear it out instead.”

“Okay,” says Richie slowly, “why are we stressing about this though? I mean, you’re about to be in the city anyway, in a couple of days—” Richie stops as Eddie shakes his head frantically.

“That’s the thing, they need me to deal with it, like, _now_ , or they’re just going to start getting rid of things. As far as I knew, Myra had dealt with it all but obviously she didn’t and they’ve got a schedule to stick to for the new buyers and—” He takes a deep, shivering breath, looking anguished. “They need me to fly out on Tuesday,” he says, “which means I'm going to miss your Comedy Central show.”

“Oh,” Richie tries desperately to keep the disappointment from showing, but judging by the look on Eddie’s face he doesn’t do a great job of it. “Well, I mean…is there anything in the place you're like…super attached to?” Richie says before he can stop himself, and instantly cringes at the whine in his voice, forcing himself to grin instead. “Does Gladys have a twin sister you need to rescue?”

“Are you kidding me?” Eddie pulls a face. “There’s a whole fucking sorority of them, I’m not liberating them all.” He digs the heels of his hand into his eyes tiredly. “I was _this_ close to just hiring someone to do it and getting them to give everything to Goodwill, but then…”

“Then?”

“It's probably stupid but…I kept thinking of that box of photographs I gave you for your birthday, and I still can’t really picture exactly what else was in that closet but I think if I don’t go and check I'm always going to assume it was full of like, all our old yearbooks and every mixtape you ever made me and it'll haunt me forever thinking that I let some removal company throw it all in the garbage. And maybe there’s nothing in there and I know it’s stupid—”

“Eddie, it's not stupid, I burst into tears when I saw those photos. We literally had our memories stolen from us, if there’s anything else like those pictures you think you might still have, it’s definitely worth trying to save them.”

“But your show—”

“I’ll have more shows Eds, hopefully. Definitely, if you’re helping me write them. Besides, even if there end up being nothing there, I think you need to do this. I think I might be good for you to, you know, pack up the place and hand the keys over. It might feel like closure.”

Richie remembers vividly the sense of freedom that had come from finally having the courage to go back to his apartment in Chicago after breaking things off with Jacob, of rescuing the last of his abandoned belongings and knowing he'd never again have to set foot in the place where he'd been so unhappy.

Eddie finally manages a crooked smile.

“I'm going to tell Stan you used the word closure,” he says, and then stares at Richie earnestly. “I’ll watch it though, I’ll watch it live, I promise. I’ll be heckling you in my thoughts.” Richie laughs.

“I don’t doubt it for a second Eddie Spaghetti,” he says, wriggling away when Eddie pinches his toes. “Hey, I — ow! Stop attacking me for a second, I want to talk to you about something. While we’re on the subject of your place in New York…”

Eddie raises his eyebrows and quirks his head to the side enquiringly; Richie takes a breath. He's rehearsed this, he's been having this conversation in his head for weeks now, but looking at Eddie all soft and settled in Richie’s sitting room, like it’s _theirs_ , like he’s made it his home already, Richie still feels woefully unprepared.

He rehearsed because there are things he wants to say, and things he knows he can’t say, not yet, not like this.

What he wants to say is, _there’s not a lot of your life left in New York now, so when we finish our trip and we end up back here, if you wanted to just stick around permanently that would be cool._

Casual, no pressure, easy to hide the fact that Eddie saying ‘no’ would completely ruin Richie.

But behind that simple sentence is everything else he feels about Eddie, overwhelming and clawing and close to just pouring out of him.

 _T_ _his is a tiny taste of my dream life and I’d like it to continue as long as possible. There’s nothing for you to go back to in New York now and I’ve seen you out here; I’ve watched you make intense conversation with the stall holders at the farmers market, I’ve watched you get used to the beaches and make friends with my neighbours because you all have really strong opinions about juice cleanses and I know you’re figuring out what to do with your life but you could stay here and tie the threads of your messy life into the threads of my messy life and God, I have never once been truly happy but I bet it would look something like that. And the time limit on me confessing everything to you is destroying me but if you stay here, I’d have space to breathe and time to get it right and I’m almost convinced now that we want the same thing. I think we’re heading towards the same destination but I can’t get us there by myself, I’ll fuck it up and take the wrong turns and hold the map upside down and I need your help here – you’re the one who’s never lost. And the tiny part of me that still has doubts, the part of me that still feels like a monster for wanting you is holding me back but the more we’re together the easier it gets to shut it up and if you leave again and settle down on the other side of the country I’m not going to be strong enough to do this and I’ll just let that monster devour me._

Richie’s not quite sure how to let one part free without everything else escaping with it, but Eddie’s frowning at him impatiently, so he's going to have to give it a shot.

“So…I was thinking about how…how our trip changed and like…how we aren’t going to end up back in New York anymore, we’re going to end up back here.” He glances at Eddie, who nods agreeably. “And originally, I planned it that way because I thought once you were back in New York it’d be easy to decide what you wanted to do then, because that’s where your life was. But now your apartment has sold and your divorce came through and maybe it’s not where your life is now, but I want—”

No, that’s bad, it can’t be about what Richie wants, this has to about what _Eddie_ wants, any decision Eddie makes has to be completely _his_.

“I mean, probably you don’t even _like_ LA, I was never really sure if you would, and obviously whatever you decide to do, I’m not going to like, immediately kick you out the minute we're back here or anything—”

Fuck, that’s _worse_ , now it sounds like an ultimatum, like Eddie _has_ to stay or Richie’s going to be pissed at him. God, Eddie’s had someone manipulating him and making decisions for him his whole life, Richie can’t just be another person who tries to curate his choices for him, how _selfish_. He never meant to emotionally blackmail Eddie into staying, that’s the kind of bullshit he's had to put up with since he was a kid, there’s no way Richie’s going to add to that.

“I don’t mean like...like obviously I'll have stuff to do once our show is over and...and like I said before, you just got your life back and I'm sure there’s loads of things you want to do now but—”

He stops, and the end of the sentence catches in his throat like tears.

_But for the love of god, please don’t leave me again._

But he can’t fucking say _that_. That’s an ultimatum and emotional blackmail and worst of all, the god's honest truth all rolled into one. He gives a sharp little laugh.

“Fuck,” he says quietly, “I might be messing this up.”

“No,” says Eddie softly, and when Richie finally looks at him there’s something like understanding dawning over his face, like he’s just solved a puzzle that’s been stumping him for months. For a second Richie thinks there’s something like _hurt_ in the set of his mouth, the crinkles around his eyes, but it’s gone before he can really get a hold on it, Eddie’s face smoothing over again. “No, you’re not messing it up, I got it.”

“You...yeah?” Richie smiles tentatively and Eddie gives him a slight smile back. “Okay...okay that’s...good. It’s not like I need you to make any decisions like, right this minute or anything, but—”

“No, it’s okay,” Eddie says. “We should have talked about his already, I just...got distracted I guess.”

There it is again, the slight downturn of his mouth, his eyes big and sad as he stares down at his bare feet for a second, before he presses his lips together in a sharp line and stands up.

“I'm gonna go change for my run,” he says, abruptly.

“I...okay.” Richie looks up at him, but Eddie's gaze stays somewhere in the middle distance as he heads into the bedroom. He reappears a couple of minutes later in his running gear, making his way straight to the front door and stopping at the rack to pull on his running shoes without looking at Richie.

“Eds, are you—”

“I'm good Rich, promise,” he says. “I'll have a think about it, get something sorted out soon.”

Then he's gone, leaving Richie feeling like he just missed part of a conversation he was present for the entirety of. He panicked and started over so many times he’s not even sure exactly what came out, but must have said something bad – maybe he really _did_ sound like Sonia; needy and oppressive and demanding.

Or maybe it was enough to tell Eddie everything. After all, Richie’s not subtle, and he's been so emboldened by _Eddie’s_ behaviour these past couple of months that he's hasn’t been keeping the kind of close watch on himself that he would do normally, that he became so good at when they were kids.

But Eddie hadn’t said _no,_ and it’s not like Eddie’s ever had a problem with saying no to Richie if he wants to. It’s a big decision for Eddie to make, after all, permanently relocating his entire life from one side of the country to another, and knowing Eddie there’s probably some leftover guilt tied up in doing something not because it’s what he should be doing, but just because he wants to.

Assuming he does want to, obviously.

But Eddie’s made a lot of big, brave decisions these past few months, if he needs a bit of time to freak out about this one Richie figures that’s fair enough. After all, it’s not like he hasn’t been doing the same.

Richie showers and dresses and eats, and putters around the apartment for a while waiting for Eddie to get in from his run, but he must have decided to hit the gym afterwards or something, because midday rolls around and he still isn’t back, so Richie has no choice but to leave for his meeting, but when he gets back home several hours later and the apartment is still empty, he starts to worry.

Eddie’s running shoes are on the rack by the front door, so he’s obviously been here at some point and headed back out again, and Richie grabs his phone from his jacket to call him and ask, but there’s already a message waiting.

**Eds:** Hope your meeting went okay. Spent the day with Bill and Mike so I’m just going to crash here tonight, be back tomorrow.

Richie stares at the message blankly, a pit of unease churning in his stomach. They have spent the night in one of Bill’s spare rooms a couple of times since they’d been back at LA, when they’d been round for dinner and it had gotten late, or one time they’d all seen a show together and Bill’s place was just closer. But Eddie’s never stayed there by himself, never needed a night away from Richie, and it can’t exactly be a coincidence that this is happening just as Richie’s asked Eddie to stay.

He tries not to panic. After all, passive-aggressive is not Eddie’s style, and if he’d made his decision already and the answer was no, Richie is sure Eddie would just say it.

Bill’s been in California for more than a decade, and Mike is also in the process of deciding whether he wants to stay here, so maybe this is Eddie’s way of getting some different perspectives on the situation, help him make the decision. It’s not as though it’s a bad idea for him to want the advice of his friends before he overhauls his entire life, _again_ , and Richie absolutely wants him to be sure about whatever he does next.

But Richie had expected Eddie to want to talk to _him_ about it; expected him to be making lists and spreadsheets and intensely dissecting the pros and cons. Richie had been _ready_ , ready to talk about their options; whether they would stay in Richie’s apartment or find a new place, whether they would clear out the spare bedroom if Eddie needed his own space, he’d almost been ready to think about tentatively pushing the conversation into the realms of what it would mean for their relationship if Eddie did choose to stay.

What he had not been ready for was Eddie to pull away from him completely. But it’s fine, however Eddie needs to deal with it is _fine_ , and at the end of the day they’re about to spend another five months or so on the road together. Eddie can’t hide from him forever.

*

Eddie gets back from Bill and Mike’s late on Monday evening while Richie’s in the shower; when he gets out of the bathroom Eddie is already in the sitting room with his suitcase open on the floor, folding clothes into it.

“You want some dinner Eds?” Richie asks tentatively. Eddie shakes his head.

“No, it’s okay, I ate with Bill and Mike.” He’s not looking at Richie, alternately moving things around his case and tapping away at his phone.

“Okay,” Richie hovers uncomfortably, half-tempted to flee the awkwardness and go straight to bed, but half-wanting to sit down next to Eddie and do something stupid, like wrap him up in his arms and beg him not to leave.

“You can go to bed Richie,” says Eddie, with a little smile. “I’m just going to double check I’ve packed everything so I don’t have to do it in the morning and then I’ll call it a night too.”

“Right,” Richie says. “You need help with anything? Or…you wanna…talk about anything?”

Eddie finally looks up, eyebrows raised slightly.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Richie says quietly. “Anything. You feeling okay about it? Going back?”

Eddie shrugs, and looks back at his phone.

“I’m not looking forward to it, but it’s got to be done. Like you said, I’ll probably feel better once it’s over, ready to…move on I guess.” 

He doesn’t sound happy about it, and Richie gets the sense Eddie might be talking more to himself than to Richie, his eyes still carefully downcast.

“Yeah,” Richie hedges, shifting uncomfortably on the spot. The conversation is pretty much over, but Richie can’t just leave when the atmosphere is so spiky. “Are you staying with Ben and Bev?” He asks, and Eddie laughs, finally sounding a bit more like himself.

“No,” he says. “I was going to but then I pictured all the pre-wedding drama and thought it might be better to get a hotel room. I’m staying in Manhattan though, near Ben’s place, then we’re all staying at the same hotel upstate for the actual wedding anyway. Hey,” he looks up at Richie again, his expression lighting up slightly, and Richie lets himself smile a little. “I was wondering if I should take the camera with me? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to film everything but some bits of pre-wedding drama could be funny? I know it’s only going to be me there for the first few days but—”

“No, do it, it’s a good idea. People always liked the videos that have the other Losers in, they’ll probably like the embarrassing candid adventures of Ben and Bev’s joint bachelor party.”

“Alright then,” Eddie says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and Richie swallows painfully.

“We’re…we’re good, right?” he says, and again a brief flicker of hurt crosses Eddie’s face before he reigns in his expression and smiles again.

“Course we are,” he says. “We’re always good.” He stands up and stretches, and then gives Richie a little pat on the arm. “Go to bed Richie, you don’t need to stay up watching me rearrange my packing cubes.”

Richie laughs, and then hovers a little, but eventually does as he’s told. He climbs into bed and lies in the darkness, wondering if he should wait up until Eddie comes in, or if that’s weird, and if his bed always felt this big, until eventually he falls asleep.

*

Richie’s woken up when the sun hits his face, and he rolls onto his front with a groan, cursing last-night Richie for forgetting to close the blinds. He lies still for a second, his face pressed into his pillow, before sitting up with a frown. It’s not like Eddie to forget to close the blinds, even if Richie does.

Eddie’s not in the bed with him, and when Richie reaches over to check his phone, he curses and scrambles out of bed but it quickly becomes clear that he’s too late. Eddie’s suitcases are gone from their spot by the front door and the apartment is silent. The only evidence Eddie was ever here at all is the coffee still warm in the pot, the words “see you Thursday” on the whiteboard, and the pillow and neatly-folded blanket sitting on the couch, where Eddie evidently spent the night.

Richie stares at them intently, as though a makeshift bed is going to have any answers for him, and then pulls out his phone to send off a quick “have a safe flight” message. He’s willing to bet that Eddie is the kind of person who turns his phone onto airplane mode the minute he’s out of the Uber, and resigns himself to not hearing from Eddie for a few hours.

He doesn’t hear from Eddie directly at all. He updates the group chat to let everyone know he’s back in New York, and throughout Tuesday evening and most of Wednesday, messages and pictures roll in either from Eddie himself or from Ben and Bev, showing the three of them packing boxes and eating a floor picnic lunch and clearing out the junk from Eddie’s apartment, but Richie’s message in their private chain sits on read. 

On Thursday morning Richie drags himself out of bed, nerves already squeezing his stomach into a tight ball of uncomfortable stress.

He’s looking forward to his set tonight, sort of, but there’s no getting away from the fact that the last time he was on stage in front of a live audience, it did not go well. Not throwing up on stage is a low bar to set, but Richie would pretty much be happy with that eventuality. Not to mention it’s going out live on TV as well…

And the fact that Bill and Mike will be in the audience is comforting, but the fact that there’ll be an empty seat that Eddie should be filling, and that Eddie _still_ hasn’t spoken to him directly since Monday night means that Richie already feels like he could throw up, and he isn’t due on stage for another ten hours.

He thinks trying to eat breakfast might be pushing his luck right now, but he pours himself some coffee and sits down on the sofa, pulling out his phone to scroll through his social media as a distraction.

It’s Bev’s Instagram that makes him put his coffee down on the side table before his shaking hands spill it everywhere.

Ben and Bev have earmarked the Friday night before the wedding exclusively for the Losers, but they must have had a few drinks the night before with some other members of the wedding party, and Bev’s Instagram is flooded with pictures. A lot of them are of her and Ben, but Richie recognises a few other faces — Bev’s aunt, her friend Kay and her girlfriend, a couple of cousins of Ben’s — and then there’s Eddie. He looks a little tired maybe, but he’s smiling in the pictures with his arms around Bev or Ben, and Richie’s hit with a wave of guilt and anxiety all over again just looking at him.

Then he scrolls to the next picture and wants to flush his phone down the toilet. So, Richie _knew_ Cary was a friend of Bev’s and knew he’d be attending the wedding and it makes sense that he’d be at their pre-wedding night out as well, but is it really necessary that he sit _that_ close to Eddie? That their elbows are brushing as they lean against the table, smiling up at whoever is taking the picture while Cary leans his head slightly to the side, his cheek almost flush with Eddie’s messy hair.

Fuck.

So, Richie knows that Ben isn’t Eddie’s type and he knows that Leo from the coffee shop – and by extension probably Mike – isn’t Eddie’s type either, but beyond that anything about Eddie’s preferences is a mystery. _This_ guy is hot (super hot, obviously, he’s a model, but in Richie’s opinion he pales in comparison to the short, doe-eyed brunette next to him) but who’s to say he’s exactly what Eddie’s looking for? He looks a little like a sharper-drawn version of Stan — with the curls and the hazel eyes and the half-smile — and Eddie’s been teasing Richie about his imaginary crush on Stan for months now, but maybe there’s something else behind that teasing? After all, they’d had a whole discussion about Richie having a crush on one of the Losers when they were kids, but Richie never asked Eddie the same question, afraid of what the answer might be. But it’s not like he can ask Eddie about it _now_ , and it’s not like Eddie has a host of ex-boyfriends that Richie can line up and scrutinise for similarities.

Although…

It’s a bad idea. As soon as it settles in his mind, he knows it’s a bad idea, but that doesn’t stop him from opening up Google and typing in the name. He’s not sure where to start, and really all he knows about the guy is his name and the year he graduated from NYU, because it was the same year Eddie did, but thanks to an old Facebook account he hasn’t logged into in months, Richie eventually tracks him down.

Scott Kerrigan, NYU graduating class of 1997, now married and living in Michigan.

Well. He doesn’t look Stan, but he’s definitely familiar, more so when Richie gives into his worst urges and scrolls back through all of the guy’s photos like a _creep_ , eventually finding some throwback shots from his time at college and there he is, wild mop of dark hair, both his glasses and his smile too big for his face, with one arm possessively around the waist of a nineteen-year-old Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie’s had the urge to cry sticking in his throat since Eddie didn’t come home on Sunday night, and for some reason looking at this picture is what sets him off, the tears in Richie’s eyes blurring the photo a little and making it even easier to mistake this guy for himself. Eddie’s teenage boyfriend, the way Richie always dreamed of being.

This should be a good thing, this should feel like hope, this is the best case scenario, right? But it settles in Richie’s stomach like a stone, a weight chained to everything he’s been dreaming about these past few months. Irrefutable proof that Eddie had — at least at one point — been attracted to someone who looked a lot like Richie, but that was when he was young, trying to prove something to his mother, trying to reclaim some part of himself. A ghost of a memory of his friend, comforting in its familiarity and easy to mistake for something else. More likely proof that any attraction Eddie might have had for Richie had been in his subconscious and was now in his past.

He closes down Facebook and switches back to Instagram, to the picture of Eddie and Cary. Maybe this is the kind of man Eddie needs, Richie thinks. Someone handsome and happy and whole. No nightmares, no trauma, no ghosts – just someone he can look at every day for the rest of his life without being reminded of all the worst things that have ever happened to him.

He closes everything down and does the only thing he can think of that might give him a shot at getting some answers — he calls Bev.

It’s not that early in the morning, especially not over on the East coast, but it rings for such a long time that Richie wonders if maybe she’s still sleeping off the previous night.

Eventually the call connects, and there’s a brief moment of silence before he hears her give a sharp sigh.

“Richie, what the fuck do you want?” Her voice is cold and so tight with anger that Richie blinks, lost.

“Well, good morning to you too Red,” he says. “Someone feeling a little worse for wear this morning?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have picked up the phone,” she says quietly, like she isn’t really talking to him. “Seriously Richie, what do you want? You have like, thirty seconds of my time before I hang up.”

“I...I needed to...I wanted to ask you...” He flounders, and then laughs uncomfortably. “What’s going on Bev? I get the feeling you might not be my best friend at the moment...”

“Don’t play dumb with me Tozier, I'm not in the mood this morning. You're wasting your valuable seconds.”

“I...Jesus, _fine_ , I just wanted to ask you a quick question about Eddie. Did he—”

“Are you _shitting_ me?” she spits. “You actually called me to talk about Eddie, after what happened?”

“Why, what happened? What’s wrong with Eddie?” Richie says, stomach clenching in sudden worry.

“Don’t,” she says, and she sounds like she might be close to tears. “Don’t be a dick. God, I promised myself I wasn’t going to get involved but I'm so fucking mad at you.”

“Bev, if you’re mad at me then I probably deserve it but—”

“You're damn fucking right you deserve it,” she snaps icily. “Jesus, after everything you said to me on your birthday I can’t believe this is what you're doing.”

“Bev, Beverley, I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, a little desperately.

“Telling Eddie you don’t want him to stay in LA after your trip is done!”

For a second the words literally will not form a coherent sentence in Richie’s mind, and he pulls back the phone to check that he hasn’t accidentally hung up and started hallucinating parts of the conversation.

“What?”

“Like, I don’t know if you changed your fucking mind since March,” she hisses, and man he's glad she’s three-thousand miles away right now because she sounds _livid_. “Or if you just decided not to tell him how you feel and you think it'll be easier for you to handle if he’s an entire continent away, but the least you could've done was break it to him gently. It is not his fault you have no idea how to handle your feelings, and—”

“Bev, I swear to god, I never told Eddie I didn’t want him to stay, it was the exact fucking opposite.”

There’s a long silence on the other line, and Richie wonders briefly if she’s just hung up on him, then he hears her take a shaky breath.

“What?”

“I want him to stay! Of course I want him to stay, what would ever make you think I wouldn’t?”

“He told me, Eddie told me you asked him to make sure he had something sorted out for when the show was done so he wouldn’t have to be in LA for too long.”

“What the fuck? I spent the entire time he was here almost telling him fucking everything! But then I kept imagining all the ways it could go wrong — and just in time for your wedding — and so I thought the best thing to do would be to start off by asking him if he wanted to stay in LA permanently when the show was done, because I thought his answer to that would be good clue to how he might take all the other stuff. And then he was telling me about having to clear out the apartment and I thought this is it, this is the perfect time to tell him, so I said...” Richie trails off, slimy panic suddenly winding its tendrils up from his gut and into his throat.

The truth is, he'd been wound so tight with the effort of _not_ telling Eddie everything, and the added anxiety of worrying that he was doing a pretty fucking solid impression of Sonia Kaspbrak at her worst, that he doesn’t fully remember what he actually did manage to say. A lot of half-finished sentences float to the surface of his mind.

_I’m not going to immediately kick you out._

_You probably don’t even like LA._

_Obviously, I'll have stuff to do once our show is over._

“Shit.”

“What did you do?” says Beverley warily.

“I think I _did_ tell him that. _By mistake_ ,” he adds urgently as Bev makes a pained noise.

“That’s a big fucking mistake.”

“I know, I know! God, I'm so stupid, I should never have tried to have a serious conversation with him while he was all crabby and adorable and wearing my clothes. I got distracted and then I nearly spilled my entire fucking guts out so I panicked and I think I just...stopped talking like halfway through. God, no wonder he hasn’t fucking talked to me for two days straight.” Richie knuckles his eyes desperately, trying to push the tears aside. He can have his breakdown later. “Is he really mad?” he asks, in a small voice that makes Bev sigh.

“Yes,” she says, “but not at you, he's mad at himself.”

“Why?” asks Richie, startled.

“Because...look, one-hundred-percent honestly, he hasn’t told me exactly how he feels. You know what he's like, getting him to talk about himself at all is like pulling teeth. But you said you thought there was a chance that he feels the same way and I think you're right, so imagine how Eddie’s feeling right now.”

Shit. All the tentative hope Richie had just begun to be brave enough to have about Eddie...he imagines having that ripped suddenly away by Eddie telling him that after they were done with their trip he wanted them to go back to their respective cities on opposite sides of the country and get on with their lives apart.

After everything Eddie has done for him since leaving New York...

“I might have really messed things up Bev.”

The fact that she doesn’t argue is concerning.

“He's really hurt Richie. He didn’t even really want to talk about it but, well, he'd had a couple of drinks and I heard him talking to Cary about apartment hunting in the city—”

“What?”

“He thinks it’s what you want! He thinks you want him to make sure he’s got somewhere sorted in New York so you won’t be stuck with him in LA.”

_I know I’m not the easiest person to be stuck with for this long..._

“Bev...”

“Those were his words, not mine,” she says, but her voice has softened a little. “Look, do you want me to talk to him, try and explain?”

The thought of Eddie getting to know the truth quickly is tempting, but Richie sighs.

“No, I might be kind of a coward but this is my mess, I should be the one to fix it. He deserves that. I messaged him but he hasn’t replied, I don’t think he'll pick up if I call him. But I shouldn’t do this over the phone anyway right? I'm flying out in the morning, I'm going to see him tomorrow afternoon, I can fix things in person. Just...I dunno. Try and stop him from impulsively marrying Cary in revenge or something.”

“I'll do my best,” she says softly. “I think they’re having lunch together today, Cary was offering to help him look for a new place.”

“Oh god…”

“Richie, it’ll be okay,” she says seriously. “You just need to…no more bullshit okay? You need to _talk_ to him.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, “yeah I know.”

*

“You nervous?”

Bill pokes Richie’s foot with his own in the back of the car Steve sent to take them to the studio. Richie looks up to see both Bill and Mike gazing at him like concerned parents about to stage an intervention. He hasn’t said a word to them since they got in the car, and all his brain can focus on is what Eddie might have said to them when he spent the night at Bill’s. Evidently he’d told Bev exactly what a shithead Richie had been, but he’d had a couple of drinks in him and still been reluctant to talk about it, so Richie thinks Bill and Mike are probably not privy to this particular cock-up, but they’re still looking at him so carefully. Bill’s got his hand on Mike’s knee, and for a second Richie’s tempted to point it out and try and derail the conversation, but he’s pissed off enough of his friends this week.

“Yeah, a bit,” he says finally. “Just trying not to open my mouth too much in case I ruin all our shoes.”

This seems to do the trick and neither of them ask any more questions, but Richie can see them occasionally exchanging a worried glance and he’s glad when they pull up outside the studio and he’s herded away backstage while they head out into the audience to find their seats.

Richie follows a kid with a clipboard to his dressing room, gets changed and lets the hair and make-up guy fuss over him for a while, trying not to stare too hard at his phone on the dressing table. It vibrates every so often with messages wishing him luck — Steve, Angie, his parents, the other Losers — but nothing yet from Eddie. Maybe he’s not even watching. He just spent the entire day in the company of a model after all, maybe he got distracted and forgot, maybe they went out for drinks after lunch, maybe they headed back to Eddie’s hotel room together…

As soon as his make up is finished Richie throws himself out of the chair and paces around the little dressing room fitfully. He’s panicking, he knows it — this is what he _does_ , imagines the worst-case scenario and then tortures himself with it. He’s doing the same thing he did when they were still in Florida, having his stupid little sulk and then immediately expecting Eddie to leave, being surprised when instead Eddie had curled up in his bed, comfortable and close.

But this is worse, this is so much worse than Richie having snapped at him in a stressful situation, and he’s so close to breaking down into tears at the thought that he almost doesn’t register the buzz of his phone on the table. He crosses the room and snatches it up desperately.

**Eds:** You have fucking got this, Richie Tozier.

Richie blinks back the tears furiously, imagining the trouble he’ll be in if they have to redo his make-up two minutes before he’s due on stage. Little shit, coming in to snipe him at the last second.

There’s a knock at the door and the kid from before pokes his head into the room.

“They need you in the wings Mr. Tozier,” he says, and Richie sniffs and nods, pockets his phone and follows the kid out of the room, through the winding corridors and into the wings of the stage. He can vaguely hear the compere finishing up their bit, and if he leans forwards just a little, he can see Bill and Mike in the front row, their heads bent close together while they smile and whisper and Richie loves them, _god_ he loves them, friends like he’s never had in his entire adult life but the empty seat beside Bill that should be Eddie’s is all he can see. 

But Eddie’s watching. For all the shitty little voice in Richie’s head that still sometimes sounds like the clown is telling him otherwise, he knows Eddie will be watching. He promised, and texting Richie just before he’s due on stage means it’s likely he’s keeping that promise. Eddie knows exactly what’s going in Richie’s set because they’ve work-shopped it together, but there’s no reason Richie can’t change the ending a little bit, go a little off-script to make amends to his best friend.

“Please welcome to the stage…Richie Tozier!”

There’s a cheer — Bill and Mike are loud enough that Richie can pick out their voices in the crowd — and Richie takes a deep breath, and heads out there.

*

The first twenty-five minutes or so of his set passes like a blur, but it’s good. People are laughing and clapping, no one’s heckled him yet and he hasn’t thrown up, but the fact that half the credit for this whole fucking thing definitely belongs to Eddie is hanging around his neck like a millstone.

He glances to his right where the stage manager taps her watch and holds up two fingers — time’s almost up. Richie looks back into the audience, back at Bill and Mike and the empty seat next to them that Eddie should be sitting in. Time to be brave for the first time in his sorry life.

 _Truth or dare,_ Richie thinks, _and this is a bit of both._

“So,” he says, as the audience last laugh dies down. “I’ve gotten through this whole set without throwing up or forgetting my own name, so I’m going to ride that high on out of here in a minute, but before you’re rid of me I just need to be, like, semi-serious for a sec. As well as getting used to shiny new gay Richie Tozier, you’re probably more used to seeing me as one half of a very weird double act these days, right?”

There’s a lot of cheering, some shouts of “yeah!” and “woo!” and one very loud voice calling “where the fuck is Eddie?”

Richie laughs, and points in the general direction of the voice.

“Yeah! See, she gets it. Well done for saying what we're all thinking, where the fuck _is_ Eddie? Little fucker’s been funnier than me since we were six years old, it should be him up here right now, huh?”

There’s applause, more scattered cheering. Richie grins.

“Unfortunately, Eddie’s stuck in New York right now dealing with some actual real-life stuff. I know,” he nods grimly as the crowd boos. “He wanted to be here, and he is on a solemn fucking promise that he’s watching so...” Richie takes a deep breath. “All the great things that have happened to me in the past few months wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Eddie, and even if they did, they wouldn’t have been half as fun. He surprised me when he agreed to come on this trip with me, and he surprised me when he agreed to film it all, and he _really_ surprised me when he agreed to having that footage put online for the amusement of you weirdos. I’ve never been the kind of person who believed in luck, but it turns out you can meet someone at six years old and if you’re really lucky at forty-one they can still surprise you. Eddie Kaspbrak — recovering hypochondriac, ex risk analyst, part time monster-killer and my best friend and favourite person on the entire fucking planet. I could never have done this without you, and there’s no one else I’d rather be stuck with for this amount of time. So...whatever happens next...thanks for everything. Even if you are stealing all my fans.” There’s laughter and cheering — Richie deliberately doesn’t look at Bill or Mike — and he grins out into the audience. “I’ve been Richie Tozier, thank you and have a great night!”

He sticks around for an extra couple of seconds to smile and wave and manages to drag his ass off the stage without collapsing or vomiting, so it _is_ an improvement on the last live gig he did.

Perhaps not much of one though. He definitely hadn’t meant to say all that, he’d meant to add a quick thank you onto the end, an acknowledgement that Eddie had been a huge part of the set and that was it _,_ not… _monologue_ about him for two solid minutes. Fuck. Fuck Steve for telling him he’s good at improvising and fuck Bill and Mike for smiling up at him like they had total faith in him not to make a mess of this and fuck _Eddie_ for making Richie feel brave for the first time in his adult life.

He heads backstage to his dressing room and drops down onto the battered little couch. He barely even remembers what he said, and it was only five fucking minutes ago. He’s stared out at that empty chair that Eddie should have been in and suddenly the vivid image of the hurt on Eddie’s face that Richie had failed to really notice was all he could think of, and it’d all come pouring out. He called Eddie his best friend, but that’s fine, Eddie knows that. Richie’s definitely told him that before. He might have called Eddie his favourite person but that’s...that’s fine, that’s not too removed from best friend. He didn’t spill his _entire_ guts on stage.

_If you’re really lucky, at forty-one they can still surprise you._

That _does_ sound kind of romantic, now Richie plays it back in his head. And he knows he can’t control his stupid face when he’s talking about Eddie, so there’s a good chance he was floating half a foot off the stage the entire time.

Shit, he might as well have just proposed live on Comedy Central.

He digs his phone out of his jeans and immediately starts sweating. There are generic messages of support and praise and congratulations from all the Losers, from his parents, from Steve but nothing from Eddie. On a whim he opens up Twitter, but immediately closes it down the first time he sees the hashtag _reddie_ flash up.

He’s just about to indulge in a full-on panic attack, maybe allow himself to throw up in the little trashcan under the dressing table as a treat, when a knock on the door startles him so sharply he drops the phone on the floor. The door opens before he can say anything, and Bill and Mike both stroll in.

“I can’t believe security let my two fucking stalkers back here,” he says, his voice only slightly shaky. Bill scoffs, but perches on the arm of the couch and wraps an arm around Richie’s shoulders and Richie might be double his height these days, but a hug from Big Bill Denbrough still does something to calm Richie’s nerves.

“You were awesome Richie,” he says sincerely, planting a kiss on the top of Richie’s head.

“You really were, it was such a good set,” Mike agrees, sitting down on the other side of Richie. They’re being completely genuine Richie thinks, but they’re also still being weirdly careful around him, and it’s not exactly helping with the consistent urge to cry that he’s had for three days. He swallows his tears painfully and tries to think of something flippant to say.

“Eddie helped write it,” is what he says instead, which is exactly the wrong thing to say because suddenly Richie _is_ fucking crying, as though just saying his name out loud is some kind of trigger for Richie’s emotions. Maybe it is.

Mike rubs his back soothingly.

“I did wonder if we were going to talk about that love confession,” he says, and he’s teasing but in his deep, gentle voice it doesn’t sting. Richie laughs weakly.

“Shut up, I got carried away.”

“You don’t say,” Bill smiles, hugging him a little tighter.

“I fucked everything up,” Richie says, and the entire stupid thing comes pouring out of him in waves. If Eddie already told them then they do a good job of hiding it, nodding and making sympathetic noises in all the right places, waiting patiently until Richie’s done.

“You haven’t ruined everything,” says Mike calmly. “It’s just...crossed wires.”

“You just need to talk to him,” says Bill. “It’s all you’ve needed to do this whole time. You and Eddie both never shut up but you never...you never _tell_ each other anything.”

Richie thinks, for once, that Big Bill might be wrong about this, because he had told Eddie about the deadlights and about his dreams and about Jacob and Eddie had told him about Myra and Scott and his deal with the turtle. But he knows what Bill means, so he nods anyway.

“I’m going to,” he sniffs, and wipes his face with his hands. “I’m going to go home, and I’m going to cry again in peace, and then I think I’m going to be sick.” He takes a deep, shivery breath. “And then I’m gonna call Eddie.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” says Mike kindly. “Calling Eddie I mean, the crying and vomiting are very on-brand though.”

Richie laughs, and then punches his arm softly.

“God, fucking _all_ of you are funnier than me.”

Mike winds an arm around his waist to go with Bill’s around his shoulders, and Richie finds himself in the middle of a very comforting hug.

“We love you Richie,” Bill mutters into his hair.

“A lot,” Mike agrees.

“You’re ruining my plans to make it back home before I cry again,” Richie mutters, but lets himself be comforted, just for a moment. “I love you guys too.”

*

Richie thinks that getting back to the apartment that had just started to feel like his _and_ Eddie’s might help, give him a boost of courage or at least calm him down a little.

It doesn’t, and the first thing he does when he walks through the door and sees that all four pairs of Eddie’s shoes that normally live on the rack in the hall are gone, is throw up. But he manages to get to the kitchen sink to do it, so it’s not a total disaster.

He shouldn’t be focusing on stupid things like shoes right now, but all he can suddenly think of is why Eddie would have taken all four pairs just to spend the next few months on the road with Richie . _He needs his fancy-pants shoes for the wedding_ , he thinks, _and he’d rather die than leave his running shoes behind. And he’s taken his sneakers for the plane, and his slightly less fancy-pants shoes for..._

Or he’s just not coming back. Maybe he’s moving all four pairs of shoes into the luxury Manhattan apartment he’s buying with his new model boyfriend.

There is a chance Richie’s still panicking though.

He drinks some water and does Eddie’s breathing exercises and, in a moment of utter weakness that he’ll never admit to anyone, lies down on the sofa for a while because Eddie slept there last night and the cushions and patchwork throw still smell like him; oranges and sunshine and the endless summer vacation.

He sits up and then wraps the throw around his shoulders because there’s no one here to judge him, and then picks up his phone again. There are still no messages from Eddie, so Richie bites the bullet and calls.

It’s just after midnight, which means it’s the early hours of the morning in New York but...Eddie always answers the phone to Richie, and if he doesn’t he always call back, and Richie thinks _fuck waiting, fuck not wanting to do it over the phone, I’m just going to tell him everything._

He presses the phone to his ear, but it goes straight to voicemail. Which means Eddie’s turned his phone off, which means he doesn’t want to talk to Richie at all, which means Richie is awake for hours, suddenly lost and adrift in the apartment that had just begun to feel like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	12. The Only Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wow,” says Bill quietly. “You’re like…in love in love with him, huh?”
> 
> Richie closes his eyes, scrunches them up tight against the blinding glare of someone else saying it out loud and speaking it into being.
> 
> “Yeah,” he says eventually, and opens his eyes. Bill just smiles. “Yeah I am.”
> 
> “The whole time?”
> 
> “The whole time,” he confirms with a nod.
> 
> “I should have known that,” Bill says solemnly. “I can see it now, when I think back to how you two were when we were kids, all that fighting and bickering and driving each other crazy…I get it now.” He grins suddenly, wide and wicked. “With hindsight, you were not subtle.”
> 
> “So I've been told,” Richie sighs, and then glares at Bill. “Speaking of painful gay pining,” he says, and Bill gives a little snort. “What about you two?”
> 
> He sort of expects Bill to be flustered, to deny everything, pull away from Mike and fold in on himself, but then he thinks he must be projecting, because Bill just smiles slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a fun and safe new years! This chapter is coming out a day early because I've basically had it written for weeks and if I have to look at it one more time I'm just going to delete this entire thing.
> 
> Enjoy!

_And I do believe it's true_

_That there are roads left in both of our shoes_

_But if the silence takes you_

_Then I hope it takes me too_

_So brown eyes I hold you near_

_Cause you're the only song I want to hear_

_A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere_

_Soul Meet Body - Death Cab For Cutie_

  
Richie’s alarm wakes him up less than two hours after he’d finally passed out; he glares at the phone mutinously, vibrating away on the hard wood floor, and genuinely considers ignoring it. He can turn it off, go back to sleep, ignore the inevitable calls from Bill and Mike and just…not fly to New York.

Richie’s initial fuck-up was one thing — bad, definitely bad, but Eddie knows him well enough to know that Richie’s mouth sometimes runs before his brain has given it permission. Richie thinks it wouldn’t have been too hard to explain himself. Eddie would make him suffer, obviously. He’d probably still be bringing it up in another twenty-seven years — _remember that time you told me to fuck off back to New York when our stupid road trip was over? —_ but it would sit somewhere in their souls alongside _Trashmouth_ and _don’t call me Eds_ and all the other stupid-but-important little jokes that formed half of their own personal language.

But going off-script to deliver a probably half-coherent and _way too honest_ speech about him live on television, and Eddie going as far as to turn off his phone to avoid talking to anyone about it? Richie doesn’t know how to deal with that. There’s no jokes or bits or prepared speeches stored in his mind for handling this one — only hazily-remembered images from the nightmares where he tells Eddie exactly how he feels and Eddie can’t stand to be around him.

He emerges from his warm cocoon of clean blankets and cushions into a room that still smells a little like stale vomit because he didn’t rinse the sink properly last night and thinks, _yep, this is a pretty fitting way to start this day_. He grabs his phone to shut it up, and check how much time he has to make a decision before he has to leave or miss his flight for real, and sees he has a string of messages in his private chain with Eddie.

He flings the patchwork throw and cushion away from himself in a weird fit of panic, like Eddie will suddenly be able to see him wrapped in his pathetic pining nest, and opens the messages.

 **Eds:** Richie you did so good, I’m so fucking proud of you.

 **Eds:** And me, because I helped write like half of that.

 **Eds:** But mainly you, cause you stood up there and said it all.

 **Eds:** Also there’s Pepto in the cabinet in the bathroom.

 **Eds:** Just saying.

Richie stares at the message chain intently, half way to laughing and half afraid that he might throw up again. His stomach is still churning with nerves and guilt and stress, but the tension gripping his body begins to loosen just a little and he drags himself to his feet. He throws his phone onto the couch and forces himself away from it. He can’t reply to Eddie right now, can’t trust himself to type out something bland and generic and not have it spill into an entire love confession out of panic. Eddie deserves better than that. After all this time, Eddie deserves the truth and he deserves to hear it from Richie in person.

*

Their plane’s been in the air all of ten fucking minutes before Mike passes out completely, head resting against the window, pillowed on Bill's scrunched-up hoodie.

“It’s only his third time on a plane,” Bill explains from the middle seat and he glances over at Mike with aching fondness on his face. “He doesn’t like it much. He took a couple of sleeping pills, I think he wants to be unconscious the entire time.”

They had both looked a little early-morning foggy when Richie had spotted them at the airport, but obviously neither Bill nor Mike had stayed awake until three in the morning having a minor nervous breakdown, so they still look better than Richie feels. He's way too old to be passing out in a slump on his couch, and every time he moves too quickly his joints scream in protest like rusted bicycle gears. He doesn’t quite have a headache, but there’s pressure behind his eyes and at his temples that suggests a doozy is on the way, and with a soft little pang he realizes that if he were flying with Eddie, he'd already have a sleep mask, a bottle of water and a pack of Tylenol being pressed into his hands by now.

As it is, he's travelling with a sleeping Mike and Bill, who does not have Eddie’s laser-focused concern for the health of everyone around him and can't seem to drag his attention away from Mike for more than five minutes even though Mike is definitely not going to be contributing to their conversation.

Besides, something about Bill seems off. Richie can’t quite put his finger on what it is. He wants to say some LA-bullshit like his _aura_ is different or something, but he can vividly picture the faces of both Stan and Eddie if he ever said something like that out loud in their presence.

But still, Bill’s aura is definitely different.

They chat idly for a while — about the wedding, about how Mike is settling in to LA and how Richie’s parents have talked about visiting soon — until Bill fixes him with a serious look.

“Have you spoken to Eddie?”

“I tried calling him last night but he had his phone off,” he says. “To be fair, it was like, two in the morning for him. When I woke up, he’d sent me a few messages though, saying he was proud of me or whatever.” Richie tries to shrug it off like it doesn’t mean anything, but in the sterile light of the plane and the clarity of the morning after and the complete and utter understanding in Bill’s expression, he’s pretty sure he fails.

“Wow,” says Bill quietly. “You’re like… _in love_ in love with him, huh?”

Richie closes his eyes, scrunches them up tight against the blinding glare of someone else saying it out loud and speaking it into being.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, and opens his eyes. Bill just smiles. “Yeah I am.”

“The whole time?”

“The whole time,” he confirms with a nod.

“I should have known that,” Bill says solemnly. “I can see it now, when I think back to how you two were when we were kids, all that fighting and bickering and driving each other crazy…I _get_ it now.” He grins suddenly, wide and wicked. “With hindsight, you were _not_ subtle.”

“So I've been told,” Richie sighs, and then glares at Bill. “Speaking of painful gay pining,” he says, and Bill gives a little snort. “What about _you_ two?”

He sort of expects Bill to be flustered, to deny everything, pull away from Mike and fold in on himself, but then he thinks he must be projecting, because Bill just smiles slowly.

“I don’t know,” he says, but he says it like the not knowing is the best part. As though being in it for the adventure is enough, even if he’s not sure where they’ll end up. “We haven’t…properly talked about it yet. We should, I guess, but…” He shrugs and glances over at Mike, and then Richie realizes exactly what looks different about Bill.

“You’re happy,” Richie says softly. “Like actually just…happy.”

It’s like the weight of the world Bill had always seemed to carry on his shoulders even as a kid, once he’d decided he was going to lead his merry band of Losers into hell to slay a monster…it’s like it’s all just gone. He’s not William Denbrough the controversial horror author, or Big Bill their fearless leader, or _Bill Denbrough, you know, the boy who’s little brother…_

He’s just Bill. Just a guy Richie knows and loves, just one of his best friends.

“Yeah,” says Bill. “I think I am.” He gazes at Mike again and smiles. “I think we are.”

“Easy as that?” Richie says, and he doesn’t mean it to sound so bitter but god, it feels so unfair that Bill and Mike have spent all of five minutes together post-Derry and now Bill looks at him like _that_ , but Bill's face is warm with understanding.

“It’s different for me and Mike though,” he says, kindly. “There’s less pressure, less expectation.”

He says this in his best, most comforting big brother voice, but Richie suddenly thinks that if he were given the option to just dive out of the plane and crash land in Texas, he probably would.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says. “Whose expectations?”

“I just mean…” Bill pulls a thoughtful face. “If we land in New York and I tell the other losers that me and Mike are sleeping together—”

“ _Are_ you?”

“—then everyone would be like, whoa, when did _that_ happen? But if we get to the hotel and you immediately drop down on one knee and say _Eddie Kaspbrak, I've been madly in love with you for thirty years and would do literally anything for the chance to suck your—_ ”

“Shut the _fuck_ up!” Richie clamps his hand over Bill's giggling mouth, half hysterical on a fizzy cocktail of laughter and panic. Bill wrenches Richie’s hand away from his face, still grinning like a devil.

“Everyone’s just gonna be like _finally_.”

“Is that what you really think?” Richie asks, his voice teetering on the edge of desperate. Bill's smile loses some of its sharpness.

“Richie,” he says. “Come on, it's _Eddie_. You know he lo—”

“Don't,” says Richie frantically. “God, don’t _say_ it. Don’t fucking jinx me like that!”

Bill laughs again, and the sound draws a little sigh and a shift of movement from Mike, but he stills when Bill reaches for him, taking his hand and shushing him tenderly.

Richie heaves a theatrical sigh.

“You absolutely cannot get your shit together before me and Eddie do,” he says, and Bill laughs again, but he doesn’t tear his gaze away from the side of Mike’s face.

“You’d better get a move on then Trashmouth."

*

Ben is already waiting for them at the airport, and Richie helps guide a hazy-eyed Mike into the backseat of Ben’s car before letting Bill slide into next to him while Richie rides shotgun. He sort of wants to grab Ben by the shoulders and shake some answers out of him. _How is Eddie? Is he happy? Has he talked about me? Is he angry? Vividly describe to me the exact movements of his eyebrows over the past three days and I’ll decipher the rest from that._

He doesn’t, mainly because Ben’s driving and Richie doesn’t want to make him crash his car the day before his wedding, but also Richie isn’t completely sure that Ben knows what he did. There’s a really good chance that anything Bev knows, Ben knows too, but Bev is a good secret keeper and Ben is sweet enough that he absolutely would not mention anything that Richie didn’t bring up first, so if there’s a chance that _one_ of his friends still doesn’t know what a trash-mouthed asshole he’s been, Richie is going to live in that blissful denial with him just a little bit longer.

It takes a little over an hour to drive from the airport to their hotel, and by the time they’ve parked in a converted stable full of other luxury cars, Mike is fully conscious, Bill is bitching about being _starving_ and Richie is starting to feel the unpleasant prickling of nerves needling his skin.

Ben leads them up a wide gravel path towards the hotel, and Richie takes a deep, steadying breath, the air fresh and clean this far from the city. The building is vaguely castle-shaped, exposed bricks and a small tower covered in creeping ivy and dotted with glistening, jewel-bright roses. Richie can’t see it this far out, but somewhere behind the structure is the picturesque lake that will form the background of the wedding ceremony tomorrow afternoon — depending on how today goes, Richie might have to find an opportunity to throw Eddie into it, get him furious and yelling and soaked until Richie has no choice but to wade in after him, and he can pretend that nothing’s changed since they were stupid kids playing at drowning each other in the quarry.

They make their way slowly through the expansive grounds of the hotel — lush green grass and artistically disorganised clusters of colourful wild flowers, and Ben is glowing as bright as the crystalline sky.

“You nervous yet Haystack?” Richie asks, overcome with sudden fondness for him.

“Yes!” he says, bright and pleased. “I’m terrified! I’m marrying _Beverley Marsh_ tomorrow, how could I not be?”

“I’m really happy for you Ben,” he says quickly, before the genuine love for them becomes so overwhelming he has to say something stupid to make himself feel better. “You and Bev — I’m so glad this is what’s happening for you. You both deserve to be happy.”

Ben gives him a knowing sort of look — so much for Bev’s secret-keeping — but any questions he might have over Richie’s sudden sincerity will have to wait, as the other Losers suddenly pour out of the open doors at the front of the hotel and spill down the steps.

Bev gets to Richie first and the hug she gives him is a little more bruising than usual. He wants to drag her away to the bottom of the garden for gossip, but she just gives him a slightly exasperated smile and moves on to be scooped up by Mike. Richie’s aware of Eddie’s presence the entire time — while he’s hugging Mike, when he has his arms around Bill, when he laughs at something Patty says to him — but it’s still a surprise when he suddenly appears right in front of him, smiling almost nervously.

“You okay?” Eddie says, hesitating on his way to hug Richie, but Richie just wraps Eddie up in his arms and squeezes.

“I’m good Eds.”

Richie releases him and stares at him for a second, trying to think of what to say. There’s something like panic building in his gut, and he’s so impatient to clear the air that he nearly blurts everything out in front of everyone, but Bev appears again and grabs him by the elbow while Eddie is corralled away by Ben. Bev stands in front of him, her arms folded across her chest awkwardly. He looks down at her pinched expression and bites the inside of his cheeks anxiously, but then she holds out her hand and passes him a card key.

“For your room,” she says, and he stares at it in confusion.

“I’m not…am I not just sharing with Eddie?” He’s literally just seen Ben hand a single card key over to Bill and Mike, watched them both trail their suitcases into the elevator together. “Are you trying to give us a break from each other?”

“I didn’t book the rooms,” she says, and there’s something in her quiet, careful tone that sets Richie’s teeth on edge. “Neither did Ben, my friend Kay did it and…well…she’s friends with Cary and he was talking a bit about Eddie and so she booked Eddie his own room in case—”

“Oh my god.”

“I mean…it’s not like it’s a guarantee that anything’s _going_ to happen and Eddie hasn’t asked me anything about Cary and Kay doesn’t know anything about you and Eddie but…”

“Yeah, I get it, I messed up Bev.”

“Look,” she says evenly, “he seems better today, a little jittery but…” She shrugs, but Richie knows what she means. It is hard to distinguish between an oncoming disaster and regular Eddie Kaspbrak levels of jittery. “Just talk to him Richie, for the love of god. No more _it can wait until after the wedding_. I’m not saying you have to tell him _everything_ , but you need to tell him you don’t want him to move back to New York the minute your show is over. He’ll understand Richie, he knows you well enough to realise sometimes your mouth opens while your brain is still lagging.” She smiles, and it’s a little thin, but it’s genuine and Richie wraps her up in another hug, crushing her against his chest slightly.

“I’ll fix it Bev,” he promises into her hair. “I swear I will.”

This seems to pacify her for now, and she gives his chest a little pat and allows him to leave, following Bill and Mike up in the elevator. He finds his room and deposits his case in the closet that already has a garment bag hanging in it — his suit for the ceremony tomorrow — then sits down on the end of the bed, lost.

It's a nice room, a level of luxury he and Eddie would never have allowed themselves while they were on the road. The walls are panelled in dark oak, a cosy contrast to the deep red of the drapes and the spread on the king-size bed. The carpet is thick, cream-coloured and spotless and there's a decorative dish filled with dried flowers on the dresser filling the room with subtle fragrance.

Without a doubt it's one of the nicest hotel rooms he's ever been in, and he still feels uncomfortable without Eddie running a suspicious hand over the sheets and inspecting the glasses in the bathroom for water marks. It's ridiculous, Richie should be a pro at this by now. He’s spent the better part of the last ten years living out of hotel rooms while touring and he did it mostly alone, except for the odd occasion when a guy with dark eyes and a sharp smile would catch his eye across a crowded bar and Richie would feel the loneliness deep within him like permafrost, suddenly so painful that it outweighed the fear of being caught taking a man back to his hotel room.

The thaw at his soul was usually short-lived; they were always gone by morning. It's not as though Richie had ever wanted them to stay anyway, he'd never wanted to watch them eat breakfast or brush their teeth or listen to them talk, all things that seemed so much more intimate than having a cock in his mouth had been. Seeing them in the light, it had been impossible to look at them and not feel like something was off, like looking too closely at the sloppy stitching on a knock-off handbag.

Makes sense now obviously.

He forces himself to his feet. If he’s going to try and explain himself to an Eddie that’s already mad at him, smelling like sweat and airplane isn’t going to win him any points, so he takes a quick shower and changes into fresh clothes before checking his phone for instructions. There’s a message from Ben summoning them all into the garden for lunch, and Richie shoves his phone and card key into the pocket of his jeans and heads back out into the corridor. He asks for directions at the reception desk and eventually finds the other Losers alternately eating a haphazard picnic on the grass and overseeing the construction of a wooden archway being set up in front of the lake, made of tightly wound wooden beams and decorated with white flowers. A length of white fabric leads from the archway all the way across the lawn to two huge French doors that open up to the ballroom where the reception will take place after tomorrow’s ceremony, and decorative wooden chairs are lined up in rows either side of the aisle.

Bev and Patty are sitting by the lake with their bare feet in the water, heads bent close together while they talk quietly. Bill and Stan have one end of the white fabric aisle each, rearranging and straightening and shouting at each other.

Eddie is sitting on the grass with Ben and Mike, so that’s where Richie heads, and a little ember of warmth flickers to life in his chest when Eddie scooches over to make room for him.

“What are we talking about?” Richie asks of no one in particular, and Ben smiles at him.

“They're both whining about me not picking a best man,” he says, as Mike tuts and shoves him lazily and Eddie gives an indignant splutter.

“No one’s _whining_ ,” Eddie protests. “I just said Mike seems like a good best man, like he'd give you good advice.” Eddie eyes Mike approvingly. “He's very husband-shaped,” he says, and Mike snorts with laughter.

“I spent the last two and a half decades living alone above the library researching sewer monsters,” he says. “I am _not_ your go-to guy for relationship advice.”

“And yet,” says Eddie, in his wiliest voice, “less than a year out of Derry and you've already landed yourself a man.” He eyes Bill meaningfully and a laugh bursts out of Richie before he can hold it in. God, he _loves_ this little shit so much.

“A rich one too,” Richie adds, grinning at Mike.

“Mmhmm,” Eddie nods sagely. “A critically acclaimed if controversial author, until recently married to a movie star. Not a bad catch at all.”

“Husband-shaped is right,” Richie agrees, catching Eddie’s eye and smiling, and for a second the edges of Eddie’s mouth curl up and it’s almost as though everything is normal. Then Mike sighs sharply and Eddie looks away before it turns into the real smile Richie's waiting for.

“You know what?” says Mike, scowling at them both. “Stan was right, this is worse. Go back to pissing each other off.”

Eddie says nothing and there’s a sharp twist of guilt in Richie’s stomach because he _has_ pissed Eddie off, for real this time, and Richie doesn’t know how to make a joke about that. But Ben makes a considering noise and taps Eddie’s foot with his own, and it draws both Eddie’s and Mike’s attention.

“You literally were a husband Eddie,” he says. “Don’t you have any good husband advice?”

Eddie snorts derisively.

“Are you kidding me? I am _not_ your role model here. Actually, you know what, study everything I did as a husband very closely and then do the exact opposite and you’ll nail it.”

His voice is light and with very little of the bitterness that drenched his voice every time his marriage came up in conversation even just months ago, but Richie still frowns. Eddie talks like this a lot, is frequently disparaging of his worth as a husband and unlike Richie’s, Eddie's sense of humour doesn’t default to self-deprecating – when he’s cruel to himself he usually means it. It’s painful to hear him blame himself for everything, and gamely agree with Myra when she says he was terrible to be married to.

Richie hasn’t met Myra obviously, but Ben and Bev both have several times, and Mike crossed paths with her once on a weekend visit to New York, and although they don’t talk about Myra in front of Eddie, in private it’s obvious who they think is to blame. Mike is usually measured (I’m just glad Eddie’s out of there) and Bev is decidedly _not_ (she was so awful to him Richie, he’ll never tell you but she was, if I ever see her again I don’t know what I’ll do) and Ben always wears the same expression on his face that he gets whenever Bev’s ex is mentioned, the one that makes Richie wonder what the consequences would be of making Ben Hanscom genuinely angry.

Richie can’t be objective about Eddie, but he does try. Objectively he thinks that Eddie would be a good husband, that being married to him would be nice, and that Myra was just the wrong person to bring out the best in him. Less objectively, somewhere deep and private in the centre of Richie’s soul, he thinks that Eddie would make the perfect husband for him specifically, and that being married to him would be a dream come true, and that Myra can go to hell for ever making Eddie feel less than.

Ben is halfway to his capable-of-murder face when he nudges Eddie gently and says, “I don’t think you’re being very fair to yourself,” and Eddie smiles and shrugs it off, but Richie arms ache with the desire to hold him tight.

“Anyway,” says Eddie, “I don’t know why you’re talking to me and Mike about being a good husband when Stan is right over there.”

“Yeah,” Mike nods. “That is a good point. Stan? Hey, Stanley!” He gets up onto his knees to wave at Stan, who glances over at them with the kind of tolerant interest of an indulgent teacher.

“What?”

“What is your number one good-husband tip?” Mike asks, and Stan pulls a thoughtful face.

“Never underestimate the value of a properly constructed spreadsheet,” he says, and then immediately turns back to Bill. Richie and Mike both crack up, and Ben looks mildly bemused, but Eddie’s got that look on his face like he can’t decide whether to laugh or physically tackle Stan to the ground for making him listen to such nonsense. It’s one of Richie’s favourites out of Eddie’s kaleidoscope of expressions, and seeing it directed at someone else makes him itch a little.

Eventually Stan and Ben go to join Bev and Patty at the side of the lake, Mike excuses himself to keep Bill company and Eddie gives Richie a nervous sort of glance.

“Well,” he says, starting to twist to his feet. “Guess I'll go—”

Richie’s done it before he can even consider whether it’s a good idea or not, shooting out a hand without a second thought and grabbing Eddie around the wrist. Eddie doesn’t immediately pull away from him, which is encouraging enough that Richie gives his arm a gentle tug, and Eddie sits down again.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Richie says automatically, although he’s obviously not. “Well, no. Eddie I know you’re mad at me—”

“I’m not mad at you—”

“No, it’s okay, you should be. I’m fucking mad at me.”

Eddie looks up at him then, his face curious but almost wary, and the idea that Eddie could look at him and expect to be hurt breaks Richie a little.

“Oh God, Eddie I’m such a moron, you know I’m a moron, you know you can only listen to like, forty-percent of what comes out of my mouth, tops.”

“What?” Eddie splutters slightly with laughter. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Look, I was never trying to ask you to go back to New York when the show ends okay? That’s like, it’s the exact fucking opposite of the conversation I wanted to have, I just started second-guessing myself halfway through, and now I feel like—”

“Richie—”

“No no, listen, this is important. I messed it up, I _really_ messed it up, but I was trying to tell you that I _want_ you to stay in LA. When the show is done, I mean, I don’t want you to come back to New York, I want you to stay in LA — with me.”

Eddie stares at him and for the first time since a smile dawned bright and warm over Eddie’s face at the sight of Richie in a little Italian in New York, Richie has no idea what Eddie is thinking. He’s not a hard guy to read — not for Richie anyway — every thought and feeling is usually painted right across his face in vivid clarity, but he stares at Richie intensely with some complicated emotion creasing his eyes and turning down the corners of his mouth and Richie fervently wishes Eddie would just yell at him instead.

After what seems like an hour of agonising silence, Eddie sighs.

“After,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“After the wedding, we’ll talk about it.”

“Eddie—”

“No Rich, listen, we can’t do this when our best friends are getting married in twenty-four hours, it’s not fair. We need to talk about it — we need to talk about a lot of things, there’s some...some stuff I need to tell you.”

“Eddie, I can’t...you can't just _say_ that and then—”

“After,” he says again. “I promise we’ll talk after and it...it'll be okay, I hope.”

He _hopes_ it'll be okay. Richie fucking hopes so too, hopes that “okay” means the same for Eddie as it does for him and whatever damage Richie’s done can be fixed. The idea of waiting even another second to find out what it is Eddie wants to tell him is agonizing, but he swallows painfully, and forces himself to smile.

“Alright then,” he says. “After.”

Eddie gives him a brave little nod, and for some reason it suddenly feels like Richie hasn’t seen him in _weeks_ , which he supposes isn’t that odd given that these last couple of days is the most time they’ve spent apart since the tail end of last year. Eddie’s sat right fucking there, and Richie still misses him.

“So,” Richie says, desperate to start any kind of normal conversation that will stop Eddie trying to leave again. “How was it? Being back in your old place?”

“Oh,” Eddie says, sounding a little surprised at the change in conversation. “Oh, it was...you were right. It wasn’t fun but...it did kind of feel like closure.”

“I'm glad,” he says. “Did you...did you end up finding anything? Your old report cards or Thundercats figures or anything?”

Richie thinks that whether or not Eddie did find anything, it'll be a welcome change of topic that might finally make him smile at Richie for real, but Eddie keeps his gaze fixed on his hands, tangled together in his lap. A muscle clenches in his jaw, and he sighs heavily, before reaching into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. It's faintly lined and frayed along one edge, like it was torn out of a notebook or journal, yellowed with age. Eddie turns it over in his hands a few times, staring at it like he half wants to just screw it up and throw it into the lake, but he hands it over to Richie instead. Richie looks at him questioningly, but Eddie’s staring out over the glistening water, so Richie takes it, his eye lingering on Eddie’s shaking hands.

He flips the paper open.

It’s Eddie’s precise, blocky handwriting, familiar to Richie from scrawled notes on their fridge whiteboard and grocery lists which Eddie still prefers to write by hand. It's also familiar to Richie from shared homework and joint science projects and stupid notes passed under desks because like a lot of things, Eddie’s handwriting hasn't changed that much in almost thirty years.  
  
  


_Richie_

_This is a really fucking stupid letter to write you, and probably you're going to make me regret it for the entire rest of the time I'm here, but since that’s only going to be three more weeks I figure I can live with it. I figure it might be worth taking the risk._

_I think we should leave. I think we should just pack our stuff and get in your truck and drive out of Derry and not come back again. If I leave with my mom when she goes to New York I'm going to forget everything, just like Bill and Bev and Ben and I don’t think I can take it. I don’t know why but I can handle the idea of forgetting the other Losers, even Bill, but the idea of forgetting you is like getting stabbed through the chest. There, I said it, you can give me shit about it forever._

_I don’t even care where we go. I know you’re talking about college in Chicago and that’s fine, or if you want to go to LA to be an actor or go to New York and audition for SNL or fucking Florida and work at Disney, I don’t give a shit. If it’s out of Derry and I'm with you, it's fine by me._

_I think probably I'll wimp out of giving you this. Sometimes you still tell me I'm brave, you said it a lot right after the clown, but you're wrong, I’m not. But I'm really going to try. If I have just one brave thing I'm capable of, then I think it’s probably right to give it you._

_God, you're never going to let me get over this. I’ll never even get the chance to forget you because your need to mock me for the rest of my life for asking you to run away with me is going to like, override the clown magic or something._

_But still, I’m kind of asking you to run away with me. Just think about it, at least._

_You’re the best friend I ever had, I really hope you know that. You'll be my best friend if you say yes and we're still fighting about your shitty jokes when we're eighty and you'll be my best friend if you say no and I forget all about you and we never see each other again._

_Whatever happens, that’s always true._

_Eds_

Suddenly Richie can barely breathe, an iron hand gripping his lungs and squeezing the life out of him

He folds the paper over again — even blurred by tears the words are painful to look at, like each one he reads is being branded into his skin. He swallows and blinks rapidly, sending tears running down his cheeks that he swipes away with the back of his hand.

Eddie lets out a shaky breath, and Richie thinks if he looks directly at Eddie right now he’s going to splinter apart like thin ice on top of a frozen pond, so he keeps his gaze on the folded paper and sniffs.

Eddie gives a weak laugh.

“That’s it,” he says, and Richie can hear the tears in Eddie’s voice too. “That’s all I found, one last little joke from the clown I guess.”

“Eddie—” Richie says, and fuck the risk of ugly crying in front of everyone, Eddie needs to know — he needs to know none of this was ever a joke, needs to know Richie would have said yes, Richie never wanted to let him go, Richie tried so hard to get him back—

“I don’t know what would have been different if I’d given it to you,” Eddie says. “But I think maybe nothing. Maybe everything is working out the way it was meant to.”

Eddie gets to his feet again and this time Richie doesn’t stop him, just holds out the letter wordlessly. Eddie shakes his head.

“Keep it Rich, I wrote it for you.” Eddie finally smiles, but it’s sad, fuck it's so _sad_. A fragile, fleeting thing that shivers across his face like winter sunshine; light but no warmth and gone in an instant. “I'm sorry it’s twenty-five years too late."

*

“We are definitely too old for this,” Stan says, as they all follow Bev into the bar that’s apparently the host of their Losers-only pre-wedding event.

“Speak for yourself Stan-the-Man,” says Richie, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Not everyone was born already sixty-five.”

“At least most of us matured past twelve,” Stan counters, and Richie’s about to snap back at him when the door closes behind them and he turns to give Bev an incredulous stare. She scowls at him defensively.

“What?”

“ _This_ is your favourite bar in New York? You, Beverley Marsh, drink here on the reg?”

“Yes! I met Kay for the first time in here, it holds a lot of fond memories for me. Oh, shove it, Trashmouth,” she says, grinning as she physically shoves him to reinforce her point. “You are literally wearing a shirt that has little hotdogs wearing bikinis on it, I’m not being lectured on taste by _you_.”

Richie takes a minute to stare around at the place. It looks, more than anything, like somebody’s very comfortable converted basement; scratched wooden tables surrounded by low-seated sofas and armchairs scattered with mismatched cushions and patterned throws. It’s almost artfully dingy; low-lit with walls covered in posters for eighties movies and nineties bands, and one corner holds a pool table, a foosball table and three retro arcade games. The bar is circular and central, with half a dozen bartenders flitting around it pouring pitchers of beer and assembling cocktails and despite Richie’s reservations, the place is surprisingly busy. He thinks, a little wistfully, that it might have been the sort of place they would all have hung out if they’d have gone to college together, or known each other during their broke, early-twenties years, in the parallel universe where there had been no clown and their lives had been simpler. Stan meeting Patty in their shared finance class and bringing her here on their first date, while the other Losers watched conspicuously from a corner. The group meeting up here after hard classes or shitty days at work or disastrous dates to console each other over drinks and pizza. Him and Eddie — young and free — ribbing each other over scores on the arcade games, trash-talking over the foosball table, daring each other to try the hottest sauce on the wings menu and then leaving to go back to their crappy shoebox apartment together. 

He wonders if it’s the kind of thing Eddie imagined when he pictured them running away to New York together, but Eddie’s at the back of the line holding the camera up to record something Mike is saying and Richie's not brave enough to ask in front of everyone.

Bev selects the only table that has actual chairs around it, and everyone takes a seat. Richie ends up again with Eddie on one side and Stan on the other. Eddie’s got Bill on his left followed by Mike, who has a casual arm across the back of Bill’s chair; Richie stares at it pointedly and Mike gives him a serene smile. 

They're noisy and messy, all leaning across the table with no regard for personal space to shout over each other, and Richie’s trying not to look too much at Eddie. He’s torn between his usual deep-seated need to have his attention at all times and a wary feeling that he’s never had around Eddie before, like it wouldn’t take much for Richie to actually annoy him, even though Eddie _seems_ fine.

Eddie’s not making it easy though. He’s loud and fast-moving and pretty much always draws Richie’s focus, but he also looks unfairly sexy, wearing what amounts to half a suit; a pinstriped white shirt with dress pants and suspenders, but he’s gone without a jacket or tie and he's left his top two buttons undone, exposing an inviting little triangle of tanned skin at his throat.

“That’s such a good outfit choice Eddie,” Bev pipes up suddenly, and Richie pulls his gaze away from Eddie hurriedly, wondering if his desire to press his tongue to the side of Eddie’s neck is visible on his face. “You have really good taste — you look so handsome.”

Eddie's cheeks glow a little, and Richie’s just trying to think of a way to agree while still making it sound like a joke when Bill makes a little hum of assent and Mike nods.

“You do look good Eddie,” Bill agrees.

“Yes,” adds Mike. “You look like the mysterious lead in a 1940’s film noir about a brooding private detective.”

The flush on Eddie’s face deepens, and he stares at Mike like he’s suddenly sprouted antlers.

“That is the weirdest fucking thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says, and Mike laughs lightly.

“You’ve been hanging out with Richie for what — six months — and _that’s_ the weirdest thing anyone ever said to you?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Richie comes out with some _shit_ —”

“Wha—” Richie splutters indignantly. “That was a drive-by, I’m just sitting here.”

“Rich, literally in the Uber on the way here you were asking me who I thought was the top — Bert or Ernie.”

“That’s because you were very wrong in your assessment—”

“No! All I said was — you know, I’m not getting drawn into this again.” He looks at Mike and raises an eyebrow. “See, this is the level of bullshit I’m dealing with, and it’s still not as weird as what _you_ just said.”

“No, Mike’s right,” says Bev sagely. “That’s the exact kind of handsome you are, like…classically handsome.”

Eddie narrows his eyes at her, and then casts his suspicious gaze around at the entire group, before turning pink again.

“If you’re all going to make fun of me at once, I need to start drinking,” he says.

“We should get cocktails,” says Bill, picking up the decorative drinks menu from the bundle in the middle of the table and then cradling it close to his chest when Mike tries to see it. “No,” says Bill, “only Eddie can look.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow at Bill but takes the cocktail menu agreeably when it’s thrust at him.

“We’re going to pick a cocktail for everyone,” Bill explains. “We’re the original two Losers, we reserve the right.”

Stan kicks Richie gently under the table, one arm around a grinning Patty.

“Have you heard this shit?”

“S’okay Staniel,” says Richie easily, “let Merry and Pippin go on their quest.”

“Oh, fuck you,” says Eddie, allowing himself to be dragged to his feet by Bill. “Just for that you’re getting a tap water surprise.”

“What’s the surprise?”

“I’m gonna spit in it.”

“I dunno,” Richie waggles his eyebrows. “I could be into that.”

“Then I’m gonna dump it on your head,” says Eddie brightly, but he ruffles Richie’s hair as he passes to follow Bill to the bar.

“I take it he’s forgiven you,” says Bev, once Eddie is safely out of earshot. There’s a gleam of devilish amusement on her face.

“I don’t know,” Richie says. “I told him I didn’t want him to leave LA and he basically gave me a _we need to talk_ but then said we couldn’t do it until after _you two_ get married.” Richie gives a pointed and dramatic sigh. “It’s very selfish of you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Bev, as Ben laughs. “I didn’t realise we were all supposed to put our lives on hold until you get your shit together.”

“God, no one’s ever going to get anything done,” says Mike, grinning widely.

“I’m fucking working on it,” Richie mutters defensively.

“I actually hope you don’t,” says Patty. “I want you to take so long that Eddie gets impatient and makes the first move himself.”

“What? _Why?_ ”

“I’m curious. I want to see what a love confession from Eddie “when pushed I throw javelins at monsters” Kaspbrak is like. Come on, you spend all of your time trying to get Eddie riled up,” she says, smiling with that same deliberate innocence that always means trouble when Bev does it. “Imagine him all riled up because he just loves you _so much_ , he can’t keep it in anymore.”

She smiles at him sweetly, and he doesn’t even need Mike’s hooting or Bev’s cackle to tell him he’s blushing. He holds a flyer for the bar's entertainment line-up in front of his face.

“Stop it, don’t look at me. It’s _don’t perceive Richie_ time.”

He emerges from behind his flyer to see Mike grinning at him, Patty curled into Stan’s side with laughter and Bev and Ben making binoculars with their hands to emphasise their staring.

His friends are all _jerks_ , but in their defence by the time Eddie and Bill return with two trays of drinks Richie’s so busy ribbing them back that his flush has faded and the image of Eddie all... _passionate_ has been stored away, safe for later consideration. Eddie puts a hand on Richie’s shoulder to steady himself as he eases back into his corner seat, and Richie’s stomach only lurches the tiniest bit, so he’s doing just _swell_.

Bill and Eddie start handing out drinks, Bill making a weirdly theatrical production of announcing each one while Eddie smiles at him fondly like an indulgent older sibling, which is such a weird role reversal that Richie's not paying enough attention, and Eddie suddenly jabs him in the ribs as Bill slides something tall and violently pink over to Richie.

“What is _that_?”

“Well,” Eddie smiles at him, “Bill wanted to get you something called a Floats Your Boat—”

“Oh, points for the cute name,” says Richie, as Bill gives him an appreciative nod.

“Yeah, but it had pineapple in it,” says Eddie, and Richie wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, Bill no, what are you doing? I hate pineapple.”

“I know,” says Eddie. “So, I went for this instead. It’s called a Big Dickie.” Richie barks out a laugh and Eddie grins wickedly.

“The menu had something called a Big Dickie and you wanted to get me some swill with _pineapple_ in it?”

Bill pulls a face at him, and then raises his own deep orange cocktail.

“To Benverley!” he cheers, and Bev grins and Ben blushes and they all crash their drinks together in a messy toast.

“What _is_ in this?” Richie asks Eddie, as everyone starts to taste and compare their cocktails.

“You'll just have to trust me,” says Eddie, lifting his own drink — something a softer pink than Richie’s and smelling like grapefruit — and tapping it against Richie’s, watching carefully as Richie raises his glass to his mouth. “Now get that Big Dickie down your throat,” he says, and his dirty cackle is echoed around the table as Richie chokes half to death.

“You little shit!” he splutters, snatching a handful of napkins off the tray and wiping his mouth. “You fucking _waited_ until I took a mouthful to say that.”

Eddie flutters his doe-eyes in mock innocence and then squawks in protest when Richie throws the balled-up napkin in his face, and it’s like the off-kilter world Richie’s been living in for a week rights itself, just a little.

*

They’re all under strict orders not to get too drunk, and a couple of hours later Mike and Patty go up to the bar to order everyone’s final round, deep in conversation about an upcoming art show they both want to see in the city. It’s only Richie and Ben at the table now, and Ben shuffles around so they’re side-by-side, watching Bev crush Bill on the foosball table, whooping triumphantly every time he concedes a goal. Eddie is also watching, holding the camera out to film the game while he leans against the wall, a crooked little half-smile on his face. Richie can’t look away from him, but it’s fine, Eddie’s attention is elsewhere now so Richie can stare all he wants at Eddie’s dimpled smile, his slicked back hair coming undone with the heat of the bar, falling over his forehead and into his eyes, crinkling up with laughter. Richie’s lost, trying to reconcile the Eddie of now — laughing, teasing, ruffling Richie’s hair — with the Eddie of just a few hours ago who handed over a teenage fucking _love letter_ with a look in his eyes like Richie was breaking his heart. Eddie is many things, but he’s not wilfully dishonest and he’s not _manipulative_ , so any mixed signals he's giving Richie aren’t likely to be on purpose. Chances are all of this is Eddie's attempt to convince the others that everything’s normal between them, so there’s no awkwardness for Ben and Bev's wedding.

That’s the terrifying part, really, because Richie doesn’t think Eddie would be so concerned about keeping their talk for after the wedding unless what he had to say was something _bad_. Multiple possibilities have been swirling around Richie’s mind all day, because he’s imaginative and talented when it comes to self-torture, but they basically all end up the same way — with Eddie deciding to stay in New York. No second road trip, no second stay in LA, no second chance for Richie to get this right. The thought has him teetering close to the edge of hysteria, like when they were kids and he would occasionally push Eddie that little bit too far and Eddie would storm off and refuse to speak to him for a day. Stan and Bill would always tell him to just give Eddie some space, but the gut-wrenching fear inside him that this time Eddie was never going to forgive him always won out, and he'd throw stones at Eddie’s window until he opened it, or follow him home from school on his bike until Eddie slowed down, or threw notes onto his desk in class until he finally threw one back. _I know I’m a dick. I’m really sorry. If you start talking to me again you can have my Twinkie at lunch. You'll give in eventually Eds, I can do this all week._

That was the thing, Eddie always did give in, eventually, and that first word or smile or god, even _scowl_ was like sunshine in winter, water in the desert, like oxygen. Like he needed Eddie’s attention to survive. He could take pissy or moody or grumpy, but being _ignored_ felt like being hacked apart.

Somehow, he thinks scrawling an apology on graph paper isn’t going to cut it this time.

Beverley cackling at Bill drags Richie out of his reverie, and Bill wanders over to Eddie and ruefully tags him in, taking over the camera. Eddie pushes himself off the wall with a grin, heading over to the table and cracking his knuckles obnoxiously in Bev’s face as he draws level with her, yelping when she snaps one of his suspenders in retaliation. 

Stan suddenly appears in the chair next to Richie, and gives a sharp sigh.

“Look at you two,” he says. “I mean, I get why _Richie’s_ face looks like that, but you’re getting married tomorrow Ben, why are _you_ still pining?”

Ben smiles his eye-crinkling smile, turning slightly towards him.

“I always will I think, a little bit. It’s always going to amaze me that this is where I ended up.”

“I think it’s what was meant to happen,” says Stan, matter-of-factly. “You two are soulmates.”

Richie can’t help it — he laughs, gamely accepting a scowl from Stan, but Ben looks at him seriously.

“You don’t believe in soulmates, Richie?” he asks, sounding sorry.

“Oh, you better believe I do Haystack,” he says, with a smile. “It’s just funny — Eddie said the same thing about you and Pats,” he says, nudging Stan with his elbow gently. “And Bev said the same thing about me and Eddie, like we’re all one big soulmate orgy.”

“Aren’t we?” says Ben, and then blushes bright red when both Richie and Stan stare at him. “Okay, I mean…lose the _orgy_ part, obviously…”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs. “Eddie’s tiny, there’s definitely not enough of him to share with anyone else.”

“I fucking _dare_ you to say that in front of him,” says Stan, and Richie shudders theatrically.

“Are you kidding me? I would very much like to keep my genitals, thank you.”

“I _meant_ ,” says Ben, covering Richie’s mouth with his hand. “Aren’t we all soulmates, in a way? Don’t you think we were meant to be together, the losers?” Ben removes his hand, and looks at Bev and Eddie again, currently neck and neck at the foosball table and being watched intently not only by Bill, but by Mike, Patty and a couple of other stragglers at the bar. One of them is a tall guy in a football jersey who openly leans to the side to get a better view of Eddie’s ass, and Richie turns back to Ben to avoid making a scene.

“You really think that?”

Ben is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, sort of sadly.

“I used to watch you guys you know? When I first moved to Derry, I’d see you — and Bill and Eddie, before we all met — just biking to the Barrens, or heading to the arcade or the movies or something and it was the first time in my life I ever actually felt lonely. Which was weird, because I’d definitely _been_ lonely before, but I didn’t really realize it until I saw you guys and saw what I was missing, because it was like I could picture myself doing all those things with you, and I’d never felt that before. Like I was—” He stops abruptly, blushing, but Richie puts a hand over his forearm immediately and squeezes.

“Like you were meant to be one of us?” he says, and Ben nods.

“Something like that,” he says, smiling almost sheepishly, but Richie slings an arm around his wide, muscular shoulders to give him a little sideways hug.

“That's because you were, of course you were.”

Ben smiles at him gratefully, and Richie’s overwhelmed with sudden affection for him. Richie has thought a lot about Ben since leaving New York. He's thought a lot about all the other Losers too, but something about watching Ben and Eddie find comfort in each other while bonding over the intricacies of an Italian menu — coupled with Bev asking who _he_ should be in group therapy with — has meant that Ben is in the forefront of his mind a lot of the time. It comes down to the fact that beneath the surface differences of their personalities, he thinks the two of them have grown up to be very similar people. He's not even really talking about the obvious thing, the BevandEddie of it all, although he definitely sees how that’s something they could have bonded over, but it’s deeper than the ache of falling in love as an insecure kid and never really moving on. Richie is loud and obnoxious and demands people’s attention, good or bad, where Ben is quiet and agreeable and doesn’t like to rock the boat, to give anyone a reason not to like him, but that’s just detail. It all comes from the same place, the same desperation to be included, to be wanted, to belong somewhere — to not be alone. But they had been, both of them, almost complacently alone, because Ben had considered solitude inevitable and Richie had thought it safer than the alternative, but they had both let loneliness settle so deeply into the foundations of their being that they had become almost numb to it.

That Ben is marrying the love of his life tomorrow seems almost miraculous to Richie.

“You’re still the best friends I’ve ever had,” says Ben. “I still think meeting you was worth almost getting cut open by Henry Bowers.”

“Definitely fate,” says Richie with a grin.

“Which means you were meant to know us, and meant to meet Bev, and meant to end up here,” adds Stan, and then smiles. “So, no more pining, _either_ of you.”

“I think the situations are a little different Stan,” says Richie.

“There are definite similarities,” says Ben, still watching Bev and Eddie.

“We have the same type I guess,” Richie concedes. “Little, fierce, handy with a fence post.”

Stan laughs softly, but Ben just gives Richie a smile.

“I know you think you've messed everything up,” he says. “But if there’s anyone on the planet who'll definitely forgive you for the crime of being Richie Tozier, it’s Eddie.”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs, “that’s a realisation I’ve had a few times now. But it’s like...it’s everything I’ve ever wanted my entire life is right in front of me, and I’m terrified that actually reaching out for it is what makes it go up in smoke. I got him back from the dead, and I got you back too,” he leans slightly against Stan. “I don’t think I have the right to ask for a third miracle.”

“Richie,” says Stan, in that tone of voice that so clearly carries _you idiot_ under it. “Eddie being in love with you would not be a miracle. At this point it's barely even a plot twist.”

“You can’t live your whole life like you’re afraid every good thing is going to be taken away from you,” says Ben, threading his fingers through Richie’s and squeezing gently.

“It’s been years Richie,” says Stan, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “for all of us. Years of being lonely and guilty and afraid. Aren’t you ready to let it go? Aren’t you ready to find out what it might be like to just be happy?”

There’s a cheer from the corner with the foosball table; Mike lifts a triumphant Eddie while Bev laughs and pulls a face at him. Eddie drops out of Mike’s arms next to her and drags her into a hug, and she wraps her arms around him without hesitation. Eddie glances over at their table and catches Richie’s eye, but he doesn’t pull a stupid face or flip Richie his middle finger or shout something. He just smiles, soft and private, and Richie smiles back.

“Yeah Stan,” he says. “I’m ready.”

*

_Eddie’s face above him, close enough to see every crinkle around his smiling eyes, close enough to hold, close enough to kiss._

_“I think I got it Rich!”_

_The shouts of the other Losers, the clown screeching in rage and pain, it all fades to a distant hum of background noise. The otherworldly green light, the cold, the sharp rocks digging into his back and the pulsing pain in his knees — how is he supposed to pay attention to any of it when Eddie’s hanging over him and his face is so close and there’s warmth and pressure around Richie’s mouth, as though maybe Eddie—_

_“I really think I got it!”_

_And Eddie’s so beautiful and he’s so brave; his courage calls to Richie to be worthy of it, and he reaches up with one hand to cup Eddie’s cheek, to bring him closer, to press their lips together like he’s wanted to do his entire life — the clown, the other Losers, the glinting wedding ring on Eddie’s finger, all of it be damned._

_Then there’s movement — fast and sure but it's not from Richie, and there’s warmth against Richie’s face but this time it’s not from Eddie’s lips. There’s blood and there’s panic and there’s Eddie’s voice, pained and quiet, and then there’s nothing. Richie’s arms are empty all over again._

_Then they shout and then they crush and then they win._

_And then they lose, and Richie’s dragged away from the fallen body of his best friend, the love of his life, his soulmate. His Eddie._

_And then there’s the Barrens, the cliff, the quarry._

_And then there were five._

Richie wakes on a sob, and he’s reaching for his glasses and swinging one leg out of bed before he’s even fully conscious. He stumbles and barely catches himself on the bedpost before he hits the floor, frantically wiping his eyes and trying to breathe.

He’s in a hotel in upstate New York. Ben and Bev are getting married today. A few hours ago Richie was drinking cocktails with all the Losers. In a room two doors down, Eddie is sleeping safely in his bed.

Richie knows all of it, but it doesn’t matter. He can still feel it — not fear, not guilt, just _grief_ , buried deep in the grave-dirt marrow of his bones. The despair carried over from some parallel universe where the turtle was unable or unwilling to help them and Eddie stayed down there and Richie was dragged back to the townhouse to drink until it didn’t hurt anymore.

It wasn’t even a _dream_ , just a vivid-clear memory of the worst moment he’s ever lived through.

He isn’t thinking about whether or not it’s a good idea, he just stumbles blindly down the corridor and knocks on Eddie’s door — too loud in the silence — and wipes his face as he waits. This could be terrible idea — Eddie could be too deeply-asleep to hear him, might be angry at being woken up, might not be alone in there — but Richie needs to see Eddie in person or he’s going to go insane. Eddie told him they’d talk after the wedding but Eddie also died midway through telling Richie something—

_Richie...you know I...I..._

If tomorrow is going to end with Eddie telling Richie something heart-breaking, then Richie's going to take this one last chance to play pretend, to have Eddie in his arms one last time.

After what feels like another twenty-four years, the door swings open and Eddie blinks up at him fuzzily, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands and pushing his hair off his face clumsily.

“Rich?”

“Yeah,” Richie gasps, and Eddie’s expression clears a little as he wakes up properly, frowning in concern.

“Nightmare?”

Richie nods. He can’t trust himself to open his mouth without bursting into tears, but Eddie just gives him a sleepy smile and grabs Richie by the wrist, tugging him gently closer.

“Come on,” Eddie says softly, threading their fingers together and pulling Richie into his room. “Let’s kill this fucking clown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time - the Benverley wedding, involving some tears, some dancing and a confession of sorts...
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	13. The Lucky One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you feel like thinking about canon and making yourself sad, this chapter's title song is a great soundtrack for that.
> 
> But for now - the Benverley wedding!

_Well I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette_

_A lifeless face that you'll soon forget_

_My eyes are damp from the words you left_

_Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest_

_And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one_

_'Cause most of us are bitter over someone_

_Youth - Daughter_

Richie wakes up in Eddie’s bed and even though Eddie isn’t in it with him, for a second it's so easy to pretend that everything is normal. The sheets still smell like him and Richie can hear him pottering around the room, swearing to himself quietly when he drops something on the floor, and if Richie keeps his eyes closed it could be any day picked at random from the last six months. They're in another motel room and they're going to spend the day at a stupid tourist trap that Eddie will pretend is a waste of time but definitely get way too enthusiastic about in the end. They're in the guest room of one of their friends’ houses and any minute Richie’s going to drag himself out of bed so he and Eddie can go and make nuisances of themselves. He's in their bed, back in their apartment in LA —he's _home_ , and it’s Eddie’s home too and he isn’t leaving Richie ever again—

“Rich?” Eddie’s voice is soft, but it breaks the spell all the same, and with a sigh Richie emerges from under the covers reluctantly. Eddie perches on the end of the bed; his slicked-back hairstyle from the night before has been transformed by sleep into electric-shock spikes, and the open drapes let in a tentative beam of pale morning sunshine, lighting up his eyes and throwing his freckles into relief. He smiles at Richie, sleepy and comfortable, and like always the warmth in Richie’s chest at the sight of him is as strong as the ache.

“What time is it?” he asks, sitting up straight and scraping the hair back from his face.

“Almost nine.”

“Does that mean we’re in trouble?”

“No,” Eddie smiles. “Not yet, but you’re gonna have to haul ass if you want to keep it that way. I’m going to shower and get dressed and stuff, you need to go get ready too.”

“Can’t I just...” Richie trails off uncomfortably. He's not ready to put a door between himself and Eddie again. Richie doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s really happening between them, but it all feels so fragile that it’s like being back in Derry, when he was half-convinced that the minute his eyes weren’t on Eddie he’d just disappear again. 

Eddie tips his head to the side enquiringly. 

“None of your stuff is here Richie,” he says, apparently knowing exactly how Richie was going to finish his stupid sentence. “You either need to go back to your room to get your suit and everything, or you’ll be showering here and then doing a walk of shame in your towel down the corridor. Either way you need to go back to your own room.”

“I know,” Richie says quietly. “I’m just not used to my room not being your room too.”

Eddie sighs, slow and soft.

“I know.”

“Eds, can’t we just—”

“Not now Richie,” he says, sounding a little desperate. “We _do_ need to talk — I _want_ to — but I can’t do this on the morning of our best friend’s wedding—”

“Do _what_?” Richie leans towards him desperately. “You said you needed to tell me some stuff but—”

“After.”

“Eddie—”

“Tomorrow,” says Eddie firmly. “Later tonight even, if you really want and we’re both still sober. But today is about them.”

He’s not going to budge on this, Richie can tell, and the unfortunate truth is that he’s right. Richie’s not sure what it is that Eddie wants to tell him, not even sure what he himself might have the courage to tell Eddie, but for the next few hours he’s a guest at Ben and Bev’s wedding. That’s the most important thing.

“Yeah,” he concedes, forcing himself to pull the covers back and finally getting out of the bed. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to go get ready then.”

“We're supposed to meet the other Losers at reception in an hour,” Eddie says, his voice slightly stern, as though he thinks Richie might have forgotten this.

“Captain Itinerary,” he says fondly. “Maybe you _should_ have been best man.” 

Eddie sticks his tongue out, but disappears into the bathroom without comment, and now there is a door between them and Richie isn’t left with much choice but to soldier on with the day. The only things he'd taken from his own room before making his half-conscious dash to Eddie’s in the middle of the night were his glasses and his card key; he swipes them both off the bedside table and wishes fervently that he'd had the presence of mind to grab some pants or a jacket. 

It does feel like a walk of shame, creeping out into the corridor in his t-shirt and boxers, knowing that Stan and Patty are in the room between his and Eddie's, that all the other Losers are somewhere on this floor as well. It's early enough that the corridor is deserted, but he can hear signs of life coming from all the other rooms, and his hands are shaking a little as he fumbles to swipe the card key through the lock. The experience isn’t alien to him — creeping out of a guy's hotel room in the early hours of the morning and praying to God that no one sees him, although granted it’s been a while. It’s weird he thinks, as he sags back against the closed door in relief, that what he's afraid of this time isn’t what people would think if they caught him leaving Eddie’s hotel room early in the morning, half-dressed and rumpled, but having to explain that they're wrong.

He heaves himself off the door to take a shower, and once he’s clean and dry he ventures into the closet for the garment bag left there by Bev. She had made outfits for all the Losers for the day and Richie was choosing to take it at face value as something she wanted to do for her friends, on her day, and not a precaution against anything he might have chosen for himself. It’s _not_ something he would have ever picked out — obviously, it’s perfectly tailored and doesn’t feature any kind of novelty print in an eye-watering colour combination — but he scans his reflection critically and concedes that she might be onto something. The suit is simple and clean cut in a subtle, slate grey but the tie and pocket square are a soft, greenish-blue that he can’t think of a name for, but presumably Bev would know. Probably Eddie too, who has a good eye for colour and who Bev had occasionally consulted when designing all of their outfits. 

Richie had watched Eddie and Bev at the big kitchen table in the house in Arizona comparing fabric swatches while they discussed colour schemes for everyone’s outfits, had listened to them compare shades of _wine_ and _damson_ and _cherry_ for Mike, and kicked Eddie playfully under the table, telling him he couldn’t be a clothes gay and a car gay at the same time. Eddie had looked at him with a haughty confidence and said, “I can be whatever the fuck I want”, and all the blood had suddenly left Richie's brain and headed south of the border, and he'd had to excuse himself from the room before it got embarrassing.

He'll bring it up with Eddie later, just for the excuse to rib him when he calls it _teal_ or _seafoam_ instead of just saying _green_. See what kind of laugh he can draw out of him by describing the shade as _pickle-barf_ in a catwalk commentator Voice. 

Richie threads the tie around his neck and attempts a clumsy half-Windsor. If things were normal he and Eddie would be sharing this room, and Eddie would have rolled his eyes and taken over by now. He’d tease Richie about never having had to work a real job that required him to dress professionally, and Richie would have pretended to be insulted while revelling in the casual intimacy of having Eddie tie it for him.

It’s all part of that easy way they care for each other, that closeness he’d realised during their week in Arizona mirrored the way Stan and Patty were around each other, or Ben and Bev, the way that gets them mistaken for a couple. He’d spent most of his adult life sneering at loved-up saps who shared desserts in restaurants and coordinated outfits to special events and walked the streets hand-in-hand, but underneath the disdain was a sick pit of bitterness and envy that they had something he never would. And god, he had _wanted_ , even when he’d been half terrified his whole life of having someone close enough to know him that well, he had wanted it almost as much as he was afraid of it.

It’s hard to be afraid when the person he’d be walking hand-in-hand with is Eddie.

He gets the knot as neat as he thinks he’s going to, slips his phone and card key into his jacket, and as he leaves the room he wonders if the past few weeks, this little taste of a life he’d never dreamed he’d have, is over now for good.

*

The non-marital Losers are already waiting in reception by the time Richie makes it down there. They’re gathered together in a little huddle at the bottom of the stairs, all turned towards Mike who has the camera focused on them, and when Eddie looks over at Richie and smiles it’s like everything else in the room slides out of focus for a second.

He looks so fucking _handsome_ , his hair combed gently to the side to emphasize the waves, his brown eyes glowing in a gorgeous contrast with his suit — fitted and shiny and a bright, vivid blue. He looks like a golden era movie star. He looks as though he just stepped out of the copy of Vogue they bought a few weeks ago because Bev was on the cover. He looks a million miles out of Richie’s league. 

Richie should’ve taken the elevator because he nearly trips on the bottom step like a nervous kid approaching his prom date, and Eddie peels away from the other Losers to give him a onceover.

“What?” says Richie, self-consciously. Eddie’s smile twists into a little smirk.

“Your tie is crooked.” He reaches up without hesitation to straighten the knot, then smooths it down over Richie’s chest. “There, that’s better,” he says, although he doesn’t let go as he looks up at Richie. “You look really good Rich.” Eddie tugs the end of the tie gently, conjuring a vivid mental image of him winding the silky fabric around his hand and using it to haul Richie down for a kiss.

In an ideal world Richie would break the tension by being a dickhead and deliberately messing up Eddie’s tie in response, but he isn’t wearing one — his shirt is made of thin, cream linen with just two little buttons at the top, collarless and open at the throat. 

Thankfully, though it might not be an ideal world, it is a world in which Bill Denbrough exists, and he suddenly shouts across the reception at both of them, drawing Eddie’s gaze and allowing Richie to breathe again.

Mike has the camera pointed at him, and he winks as Richie makes eye-contact, so presumably that’s yet another shot of him staring at Eddie like a lovesick idiot to add the collection. Fantastic. 

He follows Eddie over to the other Losers, and as they slot into place in the loose circle Richie catches sight of their reflection in the decorative mirror that takes up one wall of the reception area. Eddie is talking to Stan and not looking at Richie or the mirror, but Richie still takes a second to appreciate how good they look standing next to each other. Their suits don’t match, because that would be mortifying and Richie would have never spoken to Bev again, but the colours complement each other nicely — the dark grey of Richie’s setting off the bright blue of Eddie’s, and Richie shoves his hands in his jacket pockets to curb the urge to slide his arm around Eddie’s waist.

A week ago Richie wouldn’t have thought twice about it and now it’s like he’s thirteen again, terrified that every touch, every facial expression, even the way he’s fucking _standing_ is going to give something away.

“Hey Eds,” he says, poking Eddie in the dimple to get his attention, because if he can’t trust himself to be affectionate right now, what he can definitely do is be a little shit. “What colour is my tie?”

*

It’s just after midday by the time they’re all seated on decorative little wooden chairs out in the garden, and the day is just the right side of being too hot. The sun beams down directly overhead like a benediction, but its gleam is soothed by soft, intermittent cloud cover and the breeze sweeping in off the lake is fresh and sweet.

The Losers take up the entire front row to the right of the aisle, and over on the left side Richie can spot some familiar faces like Bev's aunt and Ben's mom, and a couple of his cousins. There’s also Bev’s friend Kay in a lemon yellow dress with her tight, spiral curls up in a loose knot, one arm around her strawberry-blonde girlfriend who’s laughing quietly at something Kay is saying.

Next to them is Cary, looking unfairly good in a deep, dusky pink suit that Richie suddenly worries will look beautiful next to the striking cobalt blue of Eddie’s. Which is the stupidest thought to ever enter the swirling vortex of bullshit that is Richie’s mind — it's not as though they deliberately coordinated outfits, it’s not as though it _means_ anything — but it’s in there now, like his brain is snagged on it and he can't tear it free.

He turns to Eddie — just to ensure his attention is still on Richie — to find the camera suddenly shoved in his face.

“I'm not sure people really need a close-up of my nose hair Eds.”

“Sorry,” Eddie backs up a little bit. “I want to make sure I get a good shot of you crying.”

“Crying? Moi?” He claps a hand to his chest in mock-outrage. “Edward I am a man of granite and steel, I have never shed a tear in my entire life.”

“You're a big ol’ baby,” says Eddie, fondly.

“I'm a Terminator.”

“You have a soul of marshmallow.”

“Lies.”

“Mike?” Eddie leans around him to fit Mike into frame, who nods solemnly into the camera.

“I can confirm Eddie is correct.”

Richie’s about to protest when music starts up from somewhere and Eddie shushes them both fiercely, which is rich since literally no other human hits Eddie Kaspbrak levels of volume in conversation. Eddie turns away from them both, leaning out of his seat a little with the camera as Ben and Bev make their way down the aisle together, hand-in-hand.

Bev’s dress is long and floaty, ivory-coloured and patterned with spring green flowers the same shade as Ben’s tie and waistcoat, his suit a light, goose-feather grey. It’s a little strange looking at them and seeing two superhumanly beautiful people but at the same time also just seeing his friends — Bev gives Kay an enthusiastic and graceless wave and Ben is blushing bright pink under so much attention.

They've written their own vows, and as Richie listens he can’t help but remember what Ben had said the night before, about all the Losers having been meant to find each other, about soulmates. Words have power, they all learned that in Derry, especially when they have belief and love behind them, and buoyed by the breeze and the flowers and the benevolent sunshine, their words feel like a spell.

And Bev says, _I realised what I wanted to run towards_ and Ben says, _I never thought I’d find you again but I think I was always looking_ and Bev says _maybe it’s magic_ and Ben says _maybe it’s a miracle._

And Richie looks at the Losers — Stan, alive and smiling, with his arm around Patty, looks at Bill and Mike who have their clasped hands resting on Mike’s knee and Ben and Bev leaning in to kiss each other and he looks at Eddie, the watery-eyed, wobbly-smiled hypocrite — and thinks, _yeah, maybe it is._

*

The afternoon melts seamlessly into the evening.

After much deliberation Bev and Ben had decided against a formal wedding dinner, and instead a huge buffet table of food had been served in the ballroom, with people mingling and drifting between the small tables that form a loose circle around the dancefloor and the large picnic tables out in the garden. On one level Richie had appreciated this decision, because sitting still for long periods of time isn’t exactly high on his list of skills and this place is just fancy enough that he’d probably have embarrassed himself by using the wrong kind of spoon. On the other hand, it does mean people keep stealing Eddie from him.

Partly it’s the fact that Eddie has the camera, and people keep collaring him to give teasing or heartfelt comments about Ben and Bev. Eddie had been determined to give everyone a chance to appear in the wedding clip and had spoken at length to Bev’s aunt, Ben’s mom, several assorted friends and co-workers, and even sat down on the ballroom floor to fit two of Ben’s tiny giggling cousins into frame, which had made Richie’s insides go embarrassingly melty.

He had also spent quite a lot of time following Bill around and asking pointed questions about Mike, and Richie was beginning to think he wouldn’t get the chance to throw Eddie in the lake at all because Bill was definitely going to beat him to it. Richie had been tempted to join him, but he didn’t particularly want to risk goading Bill into asking any pointed questions in return, so Richie had contented himself to watch from a distance.

It feels a bit like New Year’s, Eddie flitting between all of Richie’s relatives with the camera, while Richie watched him and felt like a revelation was just around the corner. Later in a dark garden he had admitted to himself for the first time that he was still in love with Eddie, and Eddie had kissed his cheek and curled up against him to watch the fireworks, and Richie had thought maybe he could be content with that — that loving Eddie would be enough, even if Eddie never loved him back. It’s how he had always felt as a child anyway, when his love for Eddie had been innocent and endless and without any hope that it would ever be returned.

But now…now he’s let himself imagine, let himself believe, and it’s so much harder to be selfless about it when the possibility seems so close.

New Year’s Eve feels like _decades_ ago now.

The sun is just beginning to set when Eddie eventually sits down, sending iridescent sparkles across the drifting surface of the lake, catching fire in Bev’s hair and making Eddie’s eyes glow. Each table is littered with scented candles to keep the bugs at bay, and all the trees are strung with soft golden lights; flickering shadows and the perfume of all the flowers and the muted music spilling out from the hotel, weaving the threads of a fairy tale around them. But it’s dangerous to believe in things like that, and Richie’s trying to keep his head. 

To that end, he’s splitting a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling wine with Ben, because Eddie had said they could talk later tonight if they were both sober, and Richie’s hit his self-sabotage quota for the fucking _decade_. Eddie has also only had one glass of real champagne and seems to be sticking to soda water, which is objectively revolting but does give Richie a little sense of encouragement.

“You done interviewing people for the night?” he says, as Eddie sets the camera down on the table in front of him. Bev, Kay and Kay’s girlfriend Iris are also sitting at the same decorative wooden table, and Kay reaches for the camera to scroll through the videos Eddie’s taken.

“Wow,” she says, “you literally went round everyone.”

“I’m not going to shove it all on our stupid YouTube channel,” says Eddie. “I’ll cut some of it together for you guys.” He directs this at Ben and Bev, who smile at him, and Kay gives him a soft sort of look.

Richie and Bev had talked a little about Kay during a private moment at the bar last night, because Richie had been nursing a growing pit of resentment for her hand in the whole “booking Eddie his own room in case he wants to hook up with a supermodel” thing. But it had been so important to Bev that the Losers accept her and became so clear that Kay had, for a long time, been Bev’s only comfort during her terrible marriage, that Richie had agreed he would try not to hate her. He didn’t think he’d actually be able to _like_ her, but then she had turned out not only to be funny and smart but, most damagingly of all, clearly completely enamoured with Eddie.

They had met a couple of times when Eddie was still in New York — Kay had viewed Ben with a certain amount of suspicion and had begged Bev to stay with her at her place in Long Island instead. So Bev had allowed Kay to meet Eddie first, which Richie thought was strange because out of the two of them Ben was definitely the entry-level Loser when it came to easing normal people into the group, but Bev had thought Kay might be less inclined to hate the guy that Bev was _not_ sleeping with. They had spent an initially awkward lunch together, but Kay had hugged Eddie at the end of it, and told Bev afterwards that even though Eddie had sat very close to Bev the whole time — talking in his turned-up-to-eleven voice and making characteristically aggressive hand gestures — Bev had not flinched once in his presence, and so Kay had decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

She had made a few pointed remarks about Richie’s older stand-up when they’d first sat down together half-an-hour ago, but didn’t seem to particularly mean any of it, and had laughed at several of his jokes since then so Richie’s mostly let go of any animosity, even if he’s a little jealous of the casual way she presses her cheek into Iris' hair.

“I still think the Converse was a bold choice,” Kay is saying, when Richie zones back into the conversation, just in time to catch Eddie stealing a mouthful out of his drink. Richie pokes him in the face and Eddie pokes back, and then sets the glass down in between them, implicitly shared. When Richie looks away from Eddie, Iris is watching them curiously, and Richie shoves away the automatic discomfort and leans a little closer to him.

“I’m _comfortable_ , and you can’t even see them under the skirt anyway,” Bev protests. “The minute my aunt set foot on the grass in those stilettos she sank four inches. Besides,” she takes a sip of her Martini, “Eddie said they looked cute.”

“They _do_ look cute,” Eddie agrees. “I also like the fact that you wore them after you made Richie wear dress shoes.”

“That was a bonus,” she agrees with a grin.

“Did Ben make any decisions about this wedding or was it entirely put together by you and Eddie?” Richie says. Ben smiles benignly.

“I picked the hotel,” he says. “And most of the decorations, and you literally watched me and Stan and Bill put the flower archway together.”

“No,” Richie argues, “I watched you and Stan put the flower archway together. I watched Bill fall off a chair twice and then complain for half an hour. But it’s nice that you let Ben choose _something_ ,” he says to Eddie, who shrugs.

“I’m living vicariously through you guys,” he says. “I didn’t make any of the decisions at my wedding.” Kay turns to him with an incredulous look on her face, and Eddie frowns at her. “What?”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” she says. “You have opinions on _everything_ , loud ones usually.”

Eddie flips her off lazily and she reaches over to ruffle his hair in retaliation and Richie thinks suddenly that actually he might love her, this person who has only ever known post-Derry Eddie, only really knows him loud and opinionated and obnoxious and clearly adores him.

“I was a different person then,” says Eddie.

“Would you get married again?” she asks, and Richie focuses his gaze on the rising bubbles in his glass, watches them reach the surface and explode in little bursts, while Eddie sits in thoughtful silence.

“Yeah,” he says, eventually. “Yeah, my marriage wasn’t great but there are a lot of reasons for that.”

“You being gay and marrying a woman, for a start,” Bev says, and Kay and Iris both laugh.

“It didn’t help,” Eddie agrees. “But it didn’t put me off like, marriage as a concept.” Richie finally looks up at him, and there’s a thoughtful and not entirely happy expression on his face. “I’d have to find someone willing to put up with me though,” he says. “I’m kind of hard work.”

Kay smiles at him again, but it’s lost its teasing edge now.

“I think you’ll manage.”

*

The evening is just starting to wind down by the time Richie manages to corner Bev on her own. After the fourth time she tripped over she decided to go up to her room and change, and she’s sitting at the bar now in a sparkly, ivy-green dress that has a big, poofy skirt like a tutu, though she’s still wearing her Converse. She looks like a little kid playing dress-up, and somehow even more gorgeous than she did in her flowing ivory wedding dress.

“Beverley fucking Marsh,” he says, sliding onto the stool next to her, and she turns to him instantly with a delighted smile on her face.

“Richie fucking Tozier!” 

Her eyes are a little too bright and her cheeks are flushed; she looks sleepy and tipsy and absurdly happy.

“You look like a punk-rock ballerina,” he says, and she laughs softly.

“That’s exactly what I was going for,” she says, “so thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he leans into her and presses a kiss to her very unruly curls. “And I love you, and I’m very happy that you married such a sweetheart, but fuck you for that suit Bev.”

She looks him up and down playfully.

“I think you look great!”

“I'm not talking about _my_ suit,” he says, and she grins at him wickedly as she pops the cocktail olive from her martini in her mouth.

“Your boy does look good in blue.”

“Those pants are _obscene_.”

“They’re flattering,” she protests, her eyes gleaming. “He has a great ass, although as a respectful best friend I will go ahead and assume you've never thought to check.”

He scowls at her, and she laughs at him but the sound is soft and safe, and suddenly interrupted by the twinkling opening bars of a very familiar song. Bev sits up straight, sudden and alert like a meerkat.

“I put this song on here for Eddie,” she says. “It’s the first song I ever failed to teach him to dance to.”

“I remember,” says Richie, able to picture the two of them under the leafy canopy of the Barrens as vividly as he can picture reminiscing about it with Eddie in Arizona.

“I wonder if he’s gotten any better since then.” She stands up and scans the crowd for him, but Eddie must have had the same thought as her because he appears out of nowhere, holding his hand out to her with a grin. She laughs in delight, ignoring his hand in favour of throwing herself into his arms, and drags him out into the middle of the dancefloor. At a table to their right Stan gets to his feet and points the camera at them, filming Bev twirling around unsteadily and forcing Eddie to do most of the work in keeping her upright.

It’s like Richie can see through time suddenly; can watch adult Eddie laugh and smile and pull faces at Bev when she teases him but also simultaneously see his thirteen-year-old self, scowling as he steps on Bev’s toes for the tenth time, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, determined to get it right. He loves Eddie now as much as he had loved Eddie then — it still feels as all-consuming as it had when he was a teenager, and he wonders if maybe he hasn’t grown at all, if maybe it doesn’t matter that twenty-seven years have passed since he watched Bev and Eddie dance in the Barrens and wished with sickening desperation to be the one in his arms. Maybe every eventuality exists all at once, all of them simultaneously both dead and alive, lonely and loved, happy and heartbroken.

Shit, maybe he _should_ be drinking.

The song ends but Eddie and Bev don’t move; they’re talking quietly with their heads close together, until a slower song starts up and Ben comes to steal Bev away, giving Eddie a one-armed hug in the process, and then leaving him alone at the side of the dancefloor. He’s watching Ben and Bev with a smile, and Richie remembers that same wistful expression on his face as they watched Stan and Patty dancing at the winter market, way back in December. Richie had been too scared to ask Eddie to dance then, but that was a _lifetime_ ago. Now everything’s different, except how much he wants it.

He slides from his barstool, but he’s too late, someone else has already beaten him to it, and as Cary leads Eddie out onto the dancefloor Richie takes a second to reflect that they really do look good together, and he doesn’t just mean the clothes; both of them handsome and clean-cut, Cary’s lighter features a pretty contrast to Eddie’s dark hair and dark, dark eyes.

Cary’s hands are cautious and careful — one holding Eddie’s and the other just grazing his hip — but Richie still has to fight the urge to break them apart, to stand defensively in between Eddie and anyone else, like he’s still trying to keep him safe from nightmares and monsters and bullies. But it’s not a protective urge, Richie knows, it’s selfish and sick and envious; he doesn’t want to keep Eddie safe, he wants to keep Eddie for himself, and he forces himself to watch, like punishment for his greed. 

The song starts to drift to a close, and Richie is torn between this sharp-toothed desire to grab for Eddie and disgust at himself for wanting it, but in the end the choice is made for him. Cary takes Eddie by the hand and leads him towards the doors of the ballroom, out into the reception area; Eddie’s wearing a slightly baffled expression but allows himself to be towed along. The DJ starts talking, and the thinning crowd gives a cheer at whatever she’s saying, but it fades into distant static as all of Richie’s attention zeroes in on the door through which Eddie’s just vanished.

He wonders if they’ll be back. It’s still a little early to be calling it a night, but perhaps not if you’ve got someone to spend the rest of the night with. He wants to run after them, beg Eddie to talk to him, humiliate himself if he has to…but he can’t. He’s done enough damage already and if this is what Eddie wants—

He’s almost holding it together when the song starts, and Eddie must’ve been right when he guessed that the playlist Bev made was for their wedding because they’re two-for-two now. _Dancing in the Dark._

It’s Richie’s limit — he can’t sit here and listen to this song after watching Eddie be led away by someone else. He slides from his barstool, his throat tight from swallowing around the painful urge to cry, and heads towards the door to make an escape—

—and nearly collides with Eddie.

He steadies Richie with a little ‘whoa', and then frowns up at him.

“Where are you going?” Eddie demands, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, just closes his fingers around Richie’s wrist and hauls him towards the dancefloor. “Stop sulking and come dance,” Eddie turns back to him, and grins. “It’s our song.” 

Richie’s shaking as Eddie puts his hands on his shoulders, allows Richie to put his on Eddie’s waist, lets Richie clumsily spin him and laughs when they both nearly crash into Ben and Bev. Bev leans in and whispers something to Eddie, who suddenly blushes furiously and shoots her a _look_.

His heart hammers like it did at fourteen, like it did just a few months ago — like it probably will every time he holds Eddie Kaspbrak in his arms for the rest of his life — as he braces one hand between Eddie’s shoulder blades and slowly, carefully dips him backwards.

And Richie’s lost. He doesn’t know what any of this means, but he’s got Eddie in his arms and he’s looking up at Richie almost bashfully, and Richie’s so close to doing something stupid he’s almost relieved when the song ends. But Eddie doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away from him and Richie’s hands tighten reflexively on Eddie’s hips. Eddie opens his mouth and then hesitates, starts to speak—

“Eddie!” Bill appears at Eddie’s side, grabbing his arm and tugging him away from Richie.

Fuck it, maybe it’ll be Bill going in the lake.

“Ow, grabby,” Eddie scolds gently, but turns towards Bill and Mike.

“C'mere and tell Mike about that time in fourth grade — he doesn’t believe me — when we...”

The end of the sentence is lost to Richie as Eddie is dragged away to Bill and Mike’s table. Richie turns, dazed, and suddenly Stan appears at his side, slipping one arm through Richie’s as if he’s expecting Richie to collapse; his head’s swimming a bit, maybe he is.

“You okay?” says Stan. Richie nods, distantly registering Stan's doubtful expression, and Richie opens his mouth to say something reassuring, when a tinny beeping sound interrupts him. Stan holds up the camera.

“Your battery is dying,” he says, his face wary and concerned, like he’s waiting for Richie to burst into tears.

“Yeah,” Richie says vaguely, and takes the camera from Stan’s hand. “Yeah, okay. I'm gonna...” He looks up, over to Bill and Mike’s table. Bill is nodding enthusiastically, Mike is _crying_ laughing, Eddie is on his feet making a gesture that looks like he’s waving a magic wand so god fucking knows what happened in fourth grade, and Richie shakes his head slightly, feeling a little like there’s water in his ears, off-kilter and foggy. He looks at Stan.

“When Eddie’s finished whatever...that is,” he nods over at them and Stan follows his gaze, “tell him I went to my room to put the camera on charge for a bit. Just so he knows I didn’t drop it in a drink or something.”

Stan nods, and with a sense of relief Richie escapes into the deserted reception. He catches sight of his reflection in the huge mirror — his hair is curling even more wildly than usual with sweat from dancing and the heat of the room, his wide eyes look a bit crazed in his pale face. He practically flees up the stairs and collapses into his room. He’d left the window open before he left earlier that day, and the room is blessedly cool and quiet in comparison to the party downstairs; he lowers himself down onto the side of his bed and digs the spare charger cable out of his bag.

Richie misses the port in the camera three times, his hands are shaking that badly, and when he finally manages to connect it, he throws it down onto the bed next to him and lowers his face against his knees for a second. Once he’s sure he’s not having a panic attack — or about to throw up — he sits up straight again and stares down at the camera.

Richie has no idea what’s going on anymore. Eddie danced with him. Granted he also danced with Cary — and with Bev and Kay, and Patty, and Mike and Bill, and once with Ben’s elderly great aunt — but he danced with Richie in front of all of their friends, in public, to _that_ song.

He called it _their_ song.

_He’s joking, obviously he was joking, think of every time you’ve cracked a stupid joke like that._

But then...

Nothing Richie had ever said about Eddie had really been a joke, had it? Covering his feelings in a veil of insincerity had allowed just enough if it to show to stop him going insane. Wrestling and tickling and rough housing had allowed him to touch Eddie. Calling him stupid nicknames had allowed him to say _Eddie my love_ out loud. Being deliberately annoying had ensured he always had Eddie’s attention.

Even dragging him round the clubhouse to that song — disguised as spontaneous summer giddiness — had really just been a chance to have Eddie in his arms, if only in secret and for the length of one song.

He snatches up the camera again, needing to see himself dancing with Eddie. He knows Stan was filming and if he can just see that look on Eddie’s face, have it confirmed and caught on film that Eddie once looked at him like Richie knows he’s always looked at Eddie, it might just be the burst of courage he needs.

It’s the last video saved and he’s just about to play it, when another thumbnail catches his eye; Eddie’s face, talking straight into the camera. There’s a split second of hesitation, and then he pokes the little image.

The Eddie on screen stares into the camera intensely for so long that Richie jabs at the screen again, thinking it’s frozen. Then Eddie sighs.

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he says, his voice tight and tense. “I think I’m practising. I need to tell you something and I need to...I need to know I’m doing it right. I don’t think I’ll show you this but hopefully...” He takes a deep breath. “Hopefully after this I’ll at least know what it is I need to say. It’s been a weird few months for me, which I guess you already know. I kind of burned my old life to the ground and then ran away, and maybe it shouldn’t have taken six months on the road for me to work out how I’m feeling but I could never really trust myself before and I really needed this time to be a mess. But then some...some stuff happened recently, obviously, and it made things a little clearer for me.” Eddie’s staring down off-screen, probably at his hands tangled together in his lap, Richie knows what Eddie looks like when he’s stressed. Then his gaze snaps back up to the camera. “I don’t know exactly how you feel, but I know you’ve been talking to Bev about me and we talk all the time but not about _this_ , and maybe we should have done. I wasn’t ready though, but I am now. I’m not used to being optimistic but I...I hope you’ve been waiting for me. And when I’m home we can talk about this face to face, but for now, just so I can say it out loud at least once...I’m in—”

Richie pauses the video, and cradles the camera in his lap, gripping it too tightly in hands that are shaking again. He can’t hear Eddie say it, even over a little video on a tiny camera screen, can’t bear to hear Eddie say that he’s in love with someone else. 

This must be what Eddie’s been gearing up to tell him, because Richie knows full well who’s been talking to Bev about Eddie, who’s waiting for him in New York and who exactly prompted that smile on Eddie’s face, because he’s just seen them dancing together.

God, he’s such an _idiot_. Everything that’s happened over the past six months — all the flirting and the teasing and the near-kisses — how did he read it all so wrong?  
Or...had he been wrong? Had Eddie been somewhere on the verge of having feelings for Richie, and then Richie had accidentally messed everything up and made Eddie realise he already had someone better waiting for him? Richie’s not even sure which is worse, the idea that all along he really had just been seeing what he wanted to see, or that he came so close to having everything he's ever wanted but messed it up himself. All he can hear is the voice in his head that sometimes sounds like the clown, but mostly just sounds like thirteen-year-old Richie Tozier, saturated so deeply with fear and love that he could barely tell them apart. _You’re so fucking stupid, thinking he would want you, thinking he would ever, for a second, be capable of loving you, thinking you deserve that._

Then the floorboard creaks behind him, and Richie whips around to see Eddie standing in the open doorway, his eyes huge in his ghostly pale face as he takes a shaky breath.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So by "a confession of sorts" I actually meant that Eddie confesses but not to Richie because he's actually in love with someone else, and this fic has been a long-con the whole time. Surprise!
> 
> I'm kidding obviously, but could you imagine?
> 
> I'm aware that this fic is very long and the slowest of slow burns and I know I have a tendency to end my chapters at frustrating points, and if you've stuck with this story until now please know I'm overwhelmingly grateful for your patience.
> 
> The next chapter will reward it, promise.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	14. Loud Like Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie’s been built out of secrets and shame for so long but thanks to Eddie — and the other Losers and the breaking of a decades-long curse sure, but mainly Eddie — Richie has shed those layers of armour and come out as something much stronger.
> 
> One last secret, he thinks, time to spit it out or swallow it forever.
> 
> Truth or dare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I would reward your patience so I here I am a week early! 
> 
> I am so glad that your reactions to the last chapter were wanting to shake Richie by the shoulders for being such an oblivious dipshit. I wasn’t happy with him either. 
> 
> Please note, although nothing that happens is super graphic I have changed the rating of the fic to E just to be on the safe side.
> 
> So...here it is, my "everything turns out okay in the end" chapter.

_Can you imagine, a love that is so proud?_

_It never has to question why or how._

_Total abandon the love in my dreams_

_When I wake up, I’m soaking in my sheets_

_Breathe_

_Breathe_

_Believe_

_Loud Like Love -- Placebo_

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”

“Eddie...” Richie twists to face him, and the apology that's ready and waiting to pour out of him dies on his lips at the look on Eddie’s face.

He looks almost _scared_ , halfway to backing out of the room again, like he thinks Richie’s about to start screaming at him.

“Look,” Eddie says, and his voice wavers a little. “Look, I can tell by your face how you feel so just...just delete it, okay? You can just delete it and we never have to talk about it again. Fuck, I can’t believe I _didn’t_ delete it, I meant to—”

“I can’t just...deleting the video doesn’t make it...make it all go away.” Richie can’t look at him – Eddie can tell how he feels but he still thinks everything will be okay if Richie just deletes the video?

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice is pleading. “Richie I can’t...you’re my best friend, I can’t lose you again because of this—”

“Eddie no, of course you won’t...you could never...” He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He can do this. All along his priority has been protecting his friendship with Eddie — whatever the cost — and he can fucking be worthy of that. He opens his eyes, and smiles at Eddie shakily. “You want to tell me about him?” he says, waving the camera weakly. “The lucky fella you’re talking about?”

He knows who Eddie’s talking about, obviously, but if their friendship is going to survive this then Richie’s going to have to get used to the sound of his name in Eddie’s mouth, is going to have to learn to hate him quietly, because Eddie deserves to love whoever the fuck he wants, and if this is what he needs to be happy then—

Richie looks up when a small gasp escapes from Eddie, and he rocks back slightly on his heels as though Richie’s just hit him, undisguised hurt creasing his face.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” he asks, in a broken voice that Richie has never heard come out of his loud, brash best friend before. “Are you making fun of me?”

“What?” Richie gapes at him. “No, I’m not making fun of you, how is asking that question making fun of you?” Eddie doesn’t answer, and Richie’s suddenly gripped with something that feels a bit like courage — something reckless and trembling and daring. _Fuck it_ , he thinks, _what’s left to lose_?

“Okay look,” Richie says, “we said we’d talk after the wedding and the wedding is fucking over, so we’re gonna talk. I have to tell you something, and you’re going to hate it, and probably me, and I know for sure now it’s a waste of time, but I think you probably need to hear it anyway because I think it'll explain a lot of things. I think...I think I fucked up Eds, and the worst part of it is that you got hurt and that was never...” His voice cuts out but he absolutely cannot cry yet; he grits his teeth painfully. “That was the absolute last thing I wanted. And god knows you don’t owe me shit, but at least let me explain?” He raises his eyebrows at Eddie questioningly, because at the end of the day he’s not going to _force_ Eddie to listen to him, but despite the scowl and the clenched muscle of his jaw, Eddie gives a tight nod and closes the door on the corridor.

Richie grips the camera in one hand, and reaches with the other into his jacket to pull out a folded-over piece of faded lined paper. He holds it tight in his lap for a second, and Eddie stares down at it like it’s something dangerous; a snake that might leap for him or a red balloon that might suddenly burst.

“You never gave me this,” says Richie, holding it up in his shaking hand. “Why did you never give me this?”

Eddie stares at him, stony-faced and silent, and for a second Richie thinks he isn’t going to answer at all, that maybe he started this story all fucking wrong and Eddie’s just going to leave the room and this’ll be how the whole thing ends. But then he gives a sharp sigh, and uncrosses his arms.

“I told you before,” he says, with a shrug. “The idea of getting a mile or so outside of Derry and forgetting you was kind of terrifying. Besides,” he says, his expression unfriendly, “like I said in the letter, I didn’t want to give you the ammunition to tease me for the entirety of my last few weeks in Derry for being so pathetic.”

“I wouldn’t have teased you.”

“All you fucking did was tease me.”

“I’d have said yes. I’d have gone with you.”

“No you wouldn’t,” says Eddie, with a laugh that cuts off abruptly when Richie doesn’t join in. He frowns. “Wait, would you?”

“Eddie,” he sighs. “Eddie you’re so fucking stupid. I would have done anything for you, I’d have gone with you anywhere. If you wanted to go to New York I would have followed you, I _tried_ to follow you—”

“What?” Eddie’s guarded expression finally breaks; he stares at Richie openly and Richie’s been built out of secrets and shame for so long but thanks to Eddie — and the other Losers and the breaking of a decades-long curse sure, but mainly Eddie — Richie has shed those layers of armour and come out as something much stronger.

 _One last secret_ , he thinks, _time to spit it out or swallow it forever._

_Truth or dare._

“I left Derry like, two days after I graduated high school and I told my parents I was leaving for college early because I was excited to get to Chicago but I actually...I actually went to New York first. I packed up my car and I had a...a photograph of you, and the last yearbook I had that you’d signed and your aunt’s address in Brooklyn and I was going to go to New York and I was going to find you and I was going to make you remember me and then...”

“And then what?”

“I wasn’t going to fucking let you go again!”

Too loud, too much in the ringing silence of the room, and Eddie blinks at him, looking startled. Richie presses his fingertips into his eyes under his glasses, and then sighs.

“Okay, here’s the thing.” He uncovers his eyes, and looks up at Eddie’s white, stricken face. “I had kind of a crush on you when we were kids — no, wait, that’s bullshit, actually. I had a huge fucking crush on you when we were kids, and it broke my stupid heart when you left. But I thought at the time that maybe with a bit of distance I could...could get over you, or move on or whatever, but it didn’t exactly work out for me that way, because I thought about you every day after you left. And by the time I was graduating it was...I mean, it obviously wasn’t just a crush. A year is enough time to get over a crush, and I was still a complete mess. I was so fucking in love with you. But I got to New York later that day with no idea why I was even there and I left for Chicago like a week later. I’d already forgotten everything.” He takes a deep, shivery breath and clenches his hands into fists, scrunching up the letter tightly like he can press it through his skin and absorb it into himself. “But then I saw you again in that restaurant in Derry and it all came flooding back to me, and I was like, _oh shit, it’s Eddie who I had a massive crush on, dammit he grew up so fucking hot I might still have a massive crush on him_. And then you _died_ and I was ready to just lie down under that house and die with you, but then you came back and I got to know you again and we did this—” He waves the camera at Eddie again, fumbling it and dropping it onto the carpet, but fuck it, it can stay there now. He isn’t going to need it again. “And you’d think almost thirty years would be enough time to get over someone but apparently you got your claws really deep into my soul Kaspbrak, because I’m still so fucking in love with you. And I messed up everything, but I need you to know that the problem was never you. I never wanted you to leave LA and I just...I was so fucking happy and I got comfortable and I started to think...” He cuts himself off, closing his eyes and shaking his head — that is not what this conversation is about. “But you’re my best friend, you'll always be my best friend and this is all...it's something I'm going to deal with. It’s not your problem, I never wanted it to be your problem. And best friends talk about this shit, I'm going to have to get used to it and I might as well start now, so please...tell me about the guy you’re in love with.”

He’s breathing hard after vomiting the whole thing out in one unhinged monologue, afraid he’d never get it all out if he stopped, but the answering silence forces him to open his eyes. He looks up at Eddie, who’s — oh god, he’s _crying_. Richie crying is just Saturday, but if Eddie is crying the situation is probably unsalvageable, and Richie might have just humiliated himself and destroyed the best relationship he’s ever had with anyone but he can’t just sit there and do nothing if Eddie’s crying. He gets to his feet and shakily makes his way around the bed until he’s standing right in front of Eddie, who’s staring up at him as though he has no fucking idea who Richie is. A tear runs down Eddie’s face and Richie tentatively reaches out to him, but Eddie takes a gulping breath and Richie snatches his hand back.

“The guy I’m in love with...” Eddie breathes, a whisper that Richie can hardly hear over his own thudding heartbeat. Then Eddie’s face contracts in rage, his eyebrows scrunching together and the corners of his mouth turning down. “Is a fucking moron!”

He places both hands on Richie’s chest and shoves him backwards, hard enough that he lands on the bed with a little bounce, and Richie stares up at him, lost. Eddie sniffs and scrubs his face angrily, and then bends down to retrieve the abandoned camera, shoving it into Richie’s hands forcefully.

“Eds,” he protests. “Eddie, I don’t think—” He shuts up when Eddie frowns at him, and lets Eddie poke at the screen, starting the video up again.

“—in love with you.” The Eddie on screen carries on from where Richie paused him, and Richie has no idea what the fuck is going on, and he’s still not sure he wants to hear how this ends, but Eddie folds him arms across his chest and scowls down at him ferociously until he looks back at the screen. Both Eddie’s take a deep breath. “Fuck...I think I have been this entire time. And I can’t imagine telling you this in person without wanting to throw up a little bit. Like, one-hundred-percent would rather face another clown monster from space than have this conversation but... I think I have to. I think we have to talk about it, and I don’t know how it’s going to go and I don’t know exactly how you feel but sometimes I think...” On-screen Eddie smiles and shakes his head. “Anyway, for better or worse I need to do it. I hope I’m brave enough. I hope I'm as brave as you think I am. I’ve done a lot of brave things since we left Derry, I’m not sure how many I have left in me but...” He looks up, straight into the camera with his big, sad eyes. “One more, I hope, cause Rich I—”

The video cuts out, the battery finally giving up the ghost after spending so long disconnected from the charger, and Richie swallows, painful and loud in the sudden silence. He closes his eyes for a second, spilling tears down onto his cheeks, and then looks up at Eddie who’s _finally_ smiling, frustrated but fond.

“You were talking about me?” Richie says, not sure whether this is supposed to be a question or not, and Eddie laughs weakly.

“Fucking... _obviously_. Richie, we’ve spent every minute of the last six months together, who did you think I was talking about?”

“Well...” Richie shifts, exposed and uncomfortable. “What about your model boyfriend?”

“My what?” Eddie gapes at him. “My model — are you talking about Cary?” He sounds incredulous, and Richie gives a reluctant shrug.

“He likes you right? Bev told me.”

“He...yeah, he does. Bev told you?” He frowns again. “She didn’t fucking tell _me_. He wanted to talk to me after we were dancing and he was asking if I wanted to like...get together when I get back to New York and it surprised the hell out of me.”

“It did?” Richie pulls a face at him. “Eds, not to like...start calling kettles black or anything but the guy is _not_ subtle.”

“Shut the fuck up,” snaps Eddie, although he’s wearing an expression that’s almost a smile. “ _I'm_ not subtle and you still thought—”

“Name one fucking thing you did that was obvious!” Richie demands, outraged.

“I threw a spear at a monster to save your life and then fairy-tale kissed you out of a magic trance!”

“In my defence, I didn’t _see_ that,” he mutters, and for a second he thinks Eddie’s going to yell at him, but then his face breaks into a smile and he cracks up laughing; a little wild, something close to hysteria but Richie knows how he feels.

“We're so stupid,” Eddie says weakly. “I think we might both be like, terminally stupid.” He smiles at Richie, small and sweet. “Look, I like Cary, he’s a good friend. He’s funny and he’s smart and he’s nice to me, but he’s not...”

“Not what?”

“He’s not _you_ ,” says Eddie, and that smile, god...Richie could drown in it.

“You said...” Richie hesitates, swallows, doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing but can’t fight the instinct to question a good thing. “In the video, you said that you wanted to talk about it when you got back to New York—”

“Rich, I was _in_ New York you dipshit! I filmed that right after I watched your show! I said when I get back to _you_.”

“You said home!”

“What’s the difference?” 

“Eddie...” Richie sniffs, tries desperately to get a hold of himself. “You said this whole time? Do you mean...” Richie’s scared to ask, terrified of the answer. He started to really think that Eddie might have feelings for him around his birthday, if he was feeling optimistic he might have pushed it back to the end of their time in Florida, but the idea that Eddie might have been feeling this way any longer seems impossible to him. “Did you mean this whole time we've been on the road? Like...like since we left New York?”

“No, not since New York!” Eddie splutters an incredulous laugh and Richie has a second to feel abashed before Eddie’s smiling at him lovingly; he's crying again. “Jesus Christ, Richie, since I was about fourteen!”

“You...what?”

“God...okay...” Eddie wipes tears away from his face, sharp and efficient. “Listen, I made a lot of shitty decisions the past twenty-four years, and most of them were because I forgot everything about who I really was, so I was making decisions based on who I thought I should be, or...or who I was pretending to be, maybe. And then when we got back from Derry I made a lot of rash decisions at once — leaving Myra and quitting my job and coming out. But then I figured, maybe I wasn’t making rash decisions, maybe I was just undoing all the bad ones I’d already made. But when it came to actually making choices about...about what to do with my life...I had to get to know myself again. I might not be the person I’ve been pretending to be for two decades, but I’m not sixteen anymore either, and I couldn’t make decisions _now_ based on what I felt _then_.” He stares at Richie, jaw clenched and eyes gleaming and he's beautiful. Richie never wants to look at anything else. “You mean the goddam world to me Richie, I had to be sure.”

“Are you?”

“I'm so sure,” he says, and then frowns a little. “Are...are you? Are you sure this...are you sure _I'm_ really what you want?”

“Eddie,” Richie's breath hitches with the effort of keeping down a sob. “Eds, I’ve been sure since the sixth grade.”

Eddie gives a watery laugh, and takes a step forwards, reaching out to put both his hands on Richie’s shoulders and squeezing gently. Richie’s breath turns shallow and gasping as Eddie’s gaze wanders shamelessly down to his mouth, and Richie remembers what Bill said about pressure and expectation, because how do you get something right when you've wanted it for _decades_?

Eddie shuffles even closer, standing in between Richie’s spread knees and placing his hands gently on either side of Richie’s neck, softly brushing his thumbs over his jaw and making Richie shiver.

He leans down and hesitates only for a second, before pressing his mouth against Richie’s so softly it's barely even a kiss, the slightest brush of their lips that still sends sparks crackling over Richie’s skin and racing down his spine until he can’t even tell whether it’s elation or terror. He freezes — he can’t help it, can’t bring himself to reach for Eddie like he desperately wants to, like touching him will shatter the illusion or wake him from the dream or make Eddie come to his senses and shove Richie away.

Then Eddie pulls back just slightly, just enough to sigh Richie’s name and Richie hears it in Eddie’s voice like he feels it melting through him — the relief.

It feels like _finally_.

Richie raises his shaking hands to just graze Eddie’s jaw with his fingertips, and this time Eddie doesn’t falter; he rests his hands on the back of Richie’s neck and kisses him with no hesitation, firm and sweet.

“Eddie,” his voice falters embarrassingly and the vision of Eddie’s face before him swims as his eyes flood with tears. “Eddie, oh my god.”

“I know,” Eddie murmurs. “I know, I know.”

He lifts his hands from Richie’s neck to cradle his face; he uses his thumbs to tenderly brush the tears away from Richie’s cheeks and Richie can’t suppress a hitching little sob.

“I've wanted this since...fuck, since before I even really knew what it meant. Eds, you have no idea...”

“I _do_.” Eddie presses their foreheads together and Richie draws a shivery breath. “I do Rich, I know.”

Richie leans back and looks up at him; handsome face and cute little dimples and big, brown, devastating eyes. Eddie. His Eddie.

God...what was he ever even afraid of?

The last of Richie’s doubt evaporates; he's on his feet, taking Eddie’s face in his hands and crushing their mouths together desperately. Eddie gives a little squeak of surprise but then throws his arms around Richie’s shoulders and Richie grabs for him frantically, his hands fisted in the back of Eddie’s blazer to tug him even closer. Eddie’s arms fall from Richie’s shoulders to land around his waist, and then he slips his hands under Richie’s jacket, up his back to his shoulder blades and Richie breaks the kiss, pulls away from Eddie just long enough to drop his jacket onto the plush carpet. Eddie’s eyes trace the line of Richie’s shoulders hungrily and then he’s got his arms around Richie again, letting out a little moan of desire into Richie’s mouth that sets Richie's whole body on fire, his spine melting into the simmering pit of need low in his abdomen. He tugs at Eddie’s lapels questioningly.

“Eds,” he gasps, “Eds can I—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie’s already sliding his arms out, letting the jacket drop onto the floor with Richie’s and then Richie’s tugging fistfuls of his shirt out of his pants and Eddie's lifting his arms to let Richie strip that off too.

“Fuck,” Richie sighs, and Eddie gives a breathless laugh but Richie absolutely doesn’t have it in him to be more eloquent than that when he’s got Eddie Kaspbrak in front of him, half-naked and panting and flushed bright pink all down his sculpted chest. “ _Fuck_.”

“What?” Eddie’s back in his arms, impatiently starting on the top few buttons of his shirt, but Richie eases back a little, puts his hands on Eddie’s narrow hips and runs his thumbs over the smooth planes of his abs.

“What do you mean _what_? God Eddie, _look_ at you.”

“You have definitely seen me shirtless before,” says Eddie carelessly. “Like a thousand times.”

“This is different,” Richie says softly. “It’s different if I can touch you.”

He stills, and swallows thickly, suddenly inexplicably nervous again after voicing this simplest of desires out loud. It's almost instinctive — the fear, the sudden urge to pull back — but then Eddie puts his hands on top of Richie’s and presses them down into his skin.

“You can touch me,” he whispers, his mouth brushing against Richie’s. “I want you to touch me.”

“Are you sure about this Eds?”

“I'm so fucking sure.”

Eddie's on his tiptoes, kissing Richie fiercely as he finally gets the last of his buttons undone and Richie shucks his shirt onto the floor. There’s a flash of insecurity — because Richie’s middle-aged and a bit soft around the middle and Eddie looks like _that_ — but then Eddie’s digging his fingers almost painfully into the flesh around Richie’s waist and humming appreciatively into his mouth.

“Oh god,” he pulls away to pepper loving little kisses along Richie’s collarbones. “Rich, you're so hot, you drive me crazy. I want you _all the time._ ”

He slides his hands from Richie’s waist around to the small of his back, gently scraping his nails over Richie’s skin sending a wave of goose bumps all the way up to Richie’s nape; Richie responds in kind by grabbing two handfuls of Eddie’s ass and using his grip to crush their bodies together. Then he feels the thick, hard line of Eddie’s cock pressed against his hip and Richie's mind whites out a little, because this is really happening, it’s not a dream or a wish or a guilt-ridden fantasy. He slots one leg in between Eddie’s and presses upwards, and Eddie lets out a needy little whine, grinding against Richie’s thigh urgently and it's more than Richie can take.

He pulls away just enough to give himself the space to undo Eddie’s fly; there’s a second of hesitation to wonder whether this is crossing a line, but if it is then Eddie’s running right over that line with him, because he immediately starts to unbuckle Richie’s belt.

Eddie bends down to remove his shoes and socks, standing up again with a little wriggle that has his pants falling from his waist to the floor. He steps out of them neatly and Richie doesn’t know where to focus his attention; Eddie’s toned stomach, his muscular thighs or the front of his boxers where he’s hard and leaking. He reaches out and runs a thumb up the swollen shaft, making Eddie shudder and lean his hips into Richie, who takes this as encouragement to continue and cups Eddie firmly, stroking and pressing his thumb against the growing damp spot in the light grey fabric.

“Fuck...” Eddie surges up onto his tiptoes to kiss Richie again, tugging his bottom lip gently between his teeth as he shoves Richie's pants down to his thighs. Richie steps backwards until he hits the bed, sitting back down and kicking his shoes and socks off, and then pulling his pants down the rest of the way and abandoning them on the carpet. He shuffles backwards on the bed until he's leaning against the headboard, then holds his arms out and Eddie comes to him easily, sliding onto Richie’s lap and slotting his thighs either side of Richie’s hips with a little squeeze. Hazy images from a dream float across Richie’s mind, and he ducks his head a little to press a reverent kiss to the starburst scar on Eddie’s chest.

“Rich...” Eddie sighs, shifting in his lap to get his arms around Richie. The movement has Eddie’s cock grinding against Richie’s firmly; a gasping little moan escapes Richie’s mouth but it’s swallowed by Eddie’s as he crashes another kiss into Richie’s lips. He digs his fingers into Eddie’s waist and urges him closer, even though Eddie’s arms are already clamped around his shoulders and his thighs have a death grip on Richie’s hips and their faces are pressed together blindly, wrapped together so tightly they might as well be one person. RichieandEddie.

Eddie pulls away to start pressing wet, biting little kisses up the line of Richie’s throat and Richie slides his hands from Eddie’s waist down the small of his back and under the waistband of his underwear, gripping his ass hard enough to make Eddie gasp right into Richie’s ear. Eddie’s on his feet suddenly, stripping his underwear off and throwing them onto the pile of discarded clothes and Richie’s follow, then Eddie’s back in his lap and now there’s nothing at all between them. The slide of Eddie’s hard, wet cock against his own makes Richie dizzy with need, whining helplessly into Eddie’s mouth when he kisses Richie again.

“Eddie...” Richie drops his head down against Eddie’s shoulder and stifles a moan against his warm skin when Eddie tangles his fingers into Richie’s hair and pulls. “Eds, what do you want?”

“You,” Eddie gasps. “I always want you, you're all I ever wanted.”

He reaches down and brushes his thumb across the sensitive underside of Richie’s cock, before wrapping his hand around it and stroking slowly, the slide eased by the amount Eddie’s leaking all over them both. Richie presses up into his hand, and then reaches down to adjust Eddie’s grip so that both their hands are tight around both their cocks, rocking against each other in a frantic, stuttering rhythm. Eddie leans down to take Richie’s earlobe between his teeth with a gentle tug, running his tongue lightly down Richie’s throat even though he’s dripping with sweat. Richie’s desperate, lost in the feeling of Eddie’s mouth against his skin, one hand tight in Richie’s hair and the other tight around Richie’s cock.

Fuck, Richie’s wanted this for years and it’s about to be over embarrassingly fast.

“Eds...” he says warningly and grips at Eddie’s shoulder to push him away slightly, because it’s about to get messy and Eddie’s made a tonne of progress since Derry but there are still things he finds revolting to the point of anxiety. “Eddie, I'm gonna...Eds I can’t...”

“It's okay,” Eddie breathes into Richie’s ear, the grip on his hair turning into soothing fingers stroking the back of his head gently. “It’s okay, you can, I want you to.”

“Kiss me,” Richie whispers. “Eddie, please.”

He's begging he realizes, expecting Eddie to pull away and tease him, but Eddie just shifts slightly, sitting up straight and placing the hand that was in Richie’s hair to the side of his face, pressing his thumb to the corner of Richie’s mouth before kissing him, open-mouthed and loving. It’s enough to tip Richie over the edge, and he sobs into Eddie’s mouth as he comes all over Eddie’s hand and stomach and Eddie follows, pulling away just enough to press their foreheads together and gasp Richie's name and then he's spilling between them with a moan that Richie feels all the way down to his toes, curling against the smooth white sheets.

Then he's quiet, panting softly against Richie’s mouth and Richie suddenly needs to see him clearly, to read some kind of reaction in his eyes or on his face. He tries to pull back but Eddie winds both arms around Richie’s shoulders again and hugs him tightly, pressing fierce little kisses along Richie’s damp hairline.

They stay that way for several blissful minutes, then Eddie freezes.

He pulls away from Richie sharply and looks down at the mess they’ve made of both their stomachs, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Ew...”

A shaky, nervous sort of laugh escapes Richie’s chest and Eddie shoves at him, lifting up from Richie’s lap and stepping unsteadily onto the floor.

“Y'okay there Eds?” Richie calls to Eddie’s back as he flees into the bathroom.

“Shut up, shut up,” he shouts back. “Urgh, it’s _drying_.”

He reappears after a few moments holding a damp cloth and a small hand towel, and although his eyebrows are still scrunched together, his hands are gentle as he urges Richie to lie back on the bed and fastidiously cleans him up, wiping away the mess with the cloth and then patting him dry with the soft towel. Richie’s just about holding it together until Eddie stares down at his stomach thoughtfully, and then presses a devoted little kiss to the skin just below his bellybutton, and then there’s a warning prickle in the corners of his eyes.

Luckily at that point Eddie swings his legs onto the carpet and pads back into the bathroom, and Richie quickly wipes his eyes with the heel of his hands as he hears the dull splat of Eddie dropping the used towels into the bathtub.

He reappears after a few minutes but doesn’t head back to the bed, instead he stops and bends down, starting to pick up his scattered clothes and Richie's stomach sinks through the floor.

_He’s leaving. Despite everything he said he's going to quickly get dressed without looking at you, and he’s going to creep out into the corridor and pray no one catches him leaving your room and in the morning this will never have happened._

But Eddie doesn’t start to dress. He grabs their jackets and hangs them in the closet, drapes their pants over the back of the armchair in the corner and then scoops everything else into a loose bundle and deposits it semi-neatly onto the dresser.

Richie watches him and tries to resist the urge to reach out to grab his hand, pull him into bed, to wind himself around Eddie like ivy and never let go.

“You done?” Richie asks, needing Eddie’s attention. Eddie turns to face him. “Or do you feel like running around with a mop and a vacuum cleaner? No time like one in the morning for a quick spring clean.”

“Do you want to tell Bev why the one-of-kind suits she designed for us spent the night in a heap on your hotel room floor?”

“Can I tell her the truth?” he grins. “Cause then I think she'd be okay with it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but his dimples give him away.

“I like this suit,” Eddie says. “I want to wear it again.”

“I definitely want to rip it off you again,” Richie says, laughing in delight when a little blush colours Eddie’s face, and even though he’s scowling he finally concedes and slides back into bed, turning the lamp off as he does so.

They’re both still naked, and Eddie’s body is a comforting warmth as he tangles his legs up with Richie’s, flooding the bed with the sharp, masculine combination of his cologne and his skin and his sweat. He reaches over to remove Richie’s glasses, putting them on the shelf above the bed and then scanning Richie’s face in the half-light for a second. Then his hands land on Richie's jaw, encouraging him down for a kiss that’s slow and deep. He pulls away to nip at Richie’s mouth again, then he's tugging at Richie’s shoulders, urging him closer until they’re lying down, wrapped up tightly in each other. Richie rests his head on Eddie’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat and feeling his fingers slipping through Richie’s hair, gently teasing out the tangles.

And it’s _Eddie_ ; Eddie who's here in Richie’s room, in Richie’s bed, curled up close in Richie’s arms. Eddie who kissed him, touched him, made him come and then cleaned him up afterwards. Eddie who chose this, who chose him — not an accident or a mistake to shamefully regret in the morning — Eddie who _wants_ him.

Eddie who loves him.

Richie feels tears begin to sting his eyes again, and he closes them and shifts to bury his face in Eddie’s neck.

“Rich?” Eddie’s voice is softly curious, but Richie just burrows in closer and silently begs Eddie not to pull away. Eddie doesn’t push, just presses his lips into Richie’s hair and hugs him even tighter, and doesn’t let go.

*

There’s only a sliver of sunlight creeping in from underneath the heavy drapes, and the room is still mostly dark when Richie opens his eyes. He blinks hazily; he’s facing the wall which offers no clues as to the state of his morning, but the profound silence isn’t encouraging, and Richie presses his face back into his pillow for a second, gathering his courage.

When he moves it’s cautiously, slowly, not wanting to turn over and find himself alone, that Eddie has already left, or that the whole thing was just a dream.

But then there’s an answering shift in the bed, a hand on his hip and Eddie’s mouth — oh _god_ — his mouth is on Richie’s jaw, underneath his ear, winding a trail of open-mouthed kisses down Richie’s neck and across his shoulder and Richie hums helplessly.

“Need to get up Rich,” says Eddie, his lips moving against Richie’s skin.

“Nuh uh,” Richie closes his eyes and shakes his head.

“We need to shower and get dressed,” Eddie argues gently. “We need to meet the others for breakfast.”

His kisses turn into the softest press of teeth, sending a delicious shiver down Richie’s spine.

“Nope. We're staying in this bed all day, and you can keep doing that.” Richie feels Eddie smiling against his shoulder and not seeing him is suddenly unbearable. Richie turns over and snuggles into Eddie’s chest.

“You’re dressed,” Richie observes, pulling away slightly. “Sort of.”

Eddie is wearing sweatpants and a light purple t-shirt that were definitely not in Richie’s room last night.

“I know,” says Eddie, wriggling out of Richie’s arms and sitting up straighter in the bed. “I went on a stealth mission downstairs to get us coffee. Well, _I_ got coffee,” he says, reaching over to the bedside table for a cup he hands out to Richie. “I got you your coffee-scented warm milk with eighteen sugars. I went back to my room first to grab some stuff though, I thought it looked a bit suspicious if I was hanging about early in the morning in the suit I was wearing last night.”

Richie takes the coffee from Eddie and reaches up to the little shelf for his glasses.

“You could've just worn something of mine,” he says, and Eddie laughs.

“That would have looked even more suspicious!” Eddie stands up and stretches slightly; Richie watches him, watches the taut lines of his arms, the shifting muscles in his back, the strip of tanned skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants, and feels something unpleasant twisting his stomach.

“Suspicious?”

“Yeah,” says Eddie, starting to pull clothes out of his case, which Richie now notices is sitting neatly beside his own on the floor. “Like, what would I have said if I’d run into one of the others? _Stan_ is in the room next door, I can’t lie to Stan, no one can. He’s psychic.”

The gnawing ache in his stomach intensifies, and he reaches out a shaking hand to put his cup back on the bedside table before he drops it and ruins the expensive sheets or the flawless cream carpet.

He shuffles forwards a little towards the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor and wrapping the covers securely around his waist, feeling suddenly very naked and exposed in front of a fully-dressed Eddie.

“Lie?” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Why...why would you lie? Don’t you want them to...don’t you want to tell them?”

Eddie spins around and stares at Richie.

“Of course we can’t tell them.”

_No_

“What?”

_No no no._

“Richie we...what did you think we were going to do? Just walk down to breakfast holding hands and announce it?”

He’s incredulous, almost laughing at Richie for being so stupid, for thinking this could be anything other than a secret.

All of Richie’s wistful fantasies of romance — of out-doing Ben and Bev in how many sickeningly cute selfies it’s possible to post in the group chat, of kissing Eddie on New Year’s Eve in front of all of them, of having the Losers gathered some day at their wedding — are suddenly extinguished like birthday candles, snuffed out like a row of desperate little wishes never voiced out loud and never granted.

“Come on,” says Eddie softly, digging around in his suitcase again, “I know the wedding was yesterday, but this is still their weekend. If we tell everyone that this—” he makes a gesture connecting the two of them, “—happened, it’s all they’re gonna talk about. Bev and Ben deserve to be the centre of attention for a while, we can wait a few days. Besides, I feel like Stanley’s gonna be smug about this, I’d really rather he was in a different state when we — are you okay?” Eddie turns back to Richie, and drops his t-shirt onto the floor.

“Eddie don’t _do_ that to me!”

“Do what? You look like you're gonna throw up.”

“I thought,” Richie puts a hand over his chest, dizzy with relief. “I thought you meant you didn’t want to tell them _ever_.” Richie looks up just in time to see Eddie frown. “Which I would understand!” He adds hurriedly. “I know you said last night that you...but if you need to take all that back, I get it. I know I’m hard work and I know I’m an effort to deal with and the fact that you put up with me this long is nothing short of fucking miraculous, and I’m really grateful for that, and for letting me kiss you and—”

“Stop, stop it!” Eddie sounds frantic, flipping the lid of his suitcase closed and crossing the room in three long strides. He stops right in front of Richie, standing in between his spread knees, and Richie rests his forehead against Eddie’s chest.

“Eds,” he breathes, “I might be panicking.”

“Yeah, no _shit_ Rich,” Eddie says softly, his hands landing on Richie’s shoulders and squeezing just hard enough to be grounding. “First of all, I didn’t let you do anything last night—”

Richie pulls his head away from Eddie and stares up at him.

“What?”

“No no! I mean...I mean I didn’t _let_ you, I _wanted_ to do it, I wanted _you_. I kissed you first Richie.” He braces himself on Richie’s shoulders and lifts his legs onto the bed, slotting his thighs around Richie’s waist and settling himself in Richie’s lap, just like he had the previous night, and Richie helplessly presses closer. Eddie gently slides his glasses off and puts them down on the bed, and with one hand on the back of Richie’s head and one arm around his shoulders Eddie pulls him into a hug. Richie gives in immediately, unable to face Eddie’s earnest brown eyes he tucks his face into Eddie’s neck gratefully.

“Listen,” Eddie’s voice is soft and serious, punctuated by the gentle press of lips against Richie’s temple, “you are not an _effort_. I know people have said shit like that to you before and I’m telling you they suck. They all fucking suck. I’ve known you forever, I just spent like six months on the road with you, and it was the most fun I’ve had since I was a kid. Being with you isn’t hard work Rich, and you’ve never been too much — not to me. Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done — both times. And...and not everything is going to be easy, I know that, I’m not stupid. But...you make me so fucking happy Rich, and I think I can make you happy too. I think we can be happy, if we let ourselves, if we give ourselves a shot.”

He presses his lips to Richie’s temple again — firmly — but this time he doesn’t move away. Richie’s crying again, there’s no way Eddie can’t feel the tears on his neck, trickling down into the collar of his t-shirt, but he just pulls Richie closer.

“It’s you and me Rich, it’s always been you and me. You’re the love of my life, you idiot.”

Richie can’t speak, just plants a messy kiss to the skin of Eddie’s throat, but he thinks that in Eddie’s warm, familiar voice, it really does sound like the truth.

*

They meet the others in the conservatory for breakfast; it's all clear glass and wooden beams and hanging baskets made of wicker filled with trailing green plants. A dozen or so large round tables are laid with light green table cloths and silver cutlery, teapots and cafetieres and little pots of sugar, each one centred with a glass vases of big white flowers. The sun gleams through the glass panels of the roof, the sky already a vivid, crystal blue even though it’s early enough that Richie can still hear birds singing through the open windows, and only three tables are occupied.

The Losers are all gathered around the one closest to the view of the lake, and it’s only when they all look up at the same time that Richie realises it might have been a mistake for the two of them to arrive together, given that as far as anyone knows they spent the night in two separate rooms. They should have had a plan — come downstairs separately, waited ten minutes, left the room earlier to make sure they weren’t the last ones to arrive, that way there'd be enough room for them to sit at opposite ends of the table. Fuck, Richie used to be so good at this — he’s had enough practice, he should be an expert at morning-after cover-ups and now when it really matters he’s going to mess it all up. It’s all Eddie’s fault, waking him up with kisses and then saying the nicest fucking things anyone’s ever said about him and making him cry, now Richie’s all dizzy and stupid. There’s no way they’re not going to guess. He feels lit up like a carnival ride, like a pinball machine, like he might be floating a few inches off the ground.

But Ben and Bev instantly turn back to each other, nestled close together and talking softly. Patty’s busy adding sugar to her tea, Bill buries himself back in his coffee and Mike looks, at best, only thirty-percent conscious so then it’s only Stan’s watchful gaze on them as they weave their way past the empty tables towards their friends; Stan, who was the last person to see Richie leave the reception last night and who was also the one to tell Eddie where he’d gone and Stan who can reading fucking minds as it is so—

Richie glances at him as they draw level with the table; Stan raises his eyebrows a fraction and yeah…he knows. Richie tries not to beam across the entirety of his stupid face and Stan gives the tiniest of eye-rolls, but he’s smiling too as he turns his attention back to his coffee with a slight shake of his head.

They sit down, slotting in side-by-side and Eddie’s pressed right up against him; thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder, and the urge to touch him is making Richie’s mouth dry, knowing now that he could, knowing what it means, and knowing that it means the same thing to Eddie. He puts both hands between his knees and presses them together; Eddie turns to him in the middle of pouring them both coffee and raises his eyebrows in concern. Richie gives him a tight smile, and Eddie slides a mug towards him, and then slowly dips one arm under the table, pulling Richie’s hands free and tangling their fingers together. He gives a reassuring little squeeze, before resting their clasped hands on his thigh, and Richie has to hide his smile in his coffee mug before he gives everything away.

A server comes to take their order, and then Richie let’s himself zone out a little, the voices of his friends a pleasant background noise that Richie lets swim around him, focused only on Eddie’s fingers in between his, running his thumb softly over the top of Richie’s hand. Eddie lets go when a gleaming fruit salad is put in front of him, immediately offering Richie the strawberries and accepting a slice of Richie’s French toast in return.

The others are making plans; Richie catches snatches of their conversations about check-out and flight times and how everyone’s getting to the airport and feels a little tug at his heart that they're all about to be separated again. Ben and Bev are flying out to Italy for their honeymoon in a few hours, Stan and Patty have to fly home for work and Mike has a job interview at UCLA on Monday — they’ve all got lives to get back to, after all, but still...

“We should do this again,” he says suddenly, and rolls his eyes when everyone stares at him. “I mean, not throw a wedding, obviously.”

_God fucking dammit do not blush and do not look at Eddie, you only kissed him for the first time last night, stop being ridiculous—_

“You mean all get together again?” says Ben brightly, and Richie nods in relief.

“Exactly,” Richie says, silently thanking the turtle god for Ben Hanscom. “Once you guys are back from Italy and me and Eds know where we’re likely to be at any given time...”

“Where are you guys going this time round?” asks Patty. Eddie pulls a thoughtful face — scrunchy eyebrows, merest hint of a pout pulling out his dimples — and good god he's cute, he's so fucking _cute_ in his yellow hoodie with his hair all messy, what right does he have to look that cute when Richie can’t touch him?

“I don’t know,” Eddie says eventually, and then nudges Richie gently with his elbow. “Do you still want to go to Ohio for The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?”

“Yes!” Richie says, distracted for a moment by how much he wants to bury his face in Eddie’s scruffy morning hair, and spilling a little coffee in his excitement. “God, I forgot we talked about doing that, it seems like a billion years ago we were in your tiny hotel room making lists of things to see.”

“Yeah, it's amazing you made it this far without killing each other,” Bill says, and Eddie smiles up at Richie warmly.

“Yeah,” he says, a little gleam in his eyes that makes Richie’s chest flutter. “Who'd have thought?”

“We talked about going to Chicago too,” says Richie, the list of potential adventures suddenly fresh in his mind. “I was gonna show you all the bars I bombed in when I was just starting out.”

“You know, the exhibition we wanted to see here is in Chicago next,” Patty says, drawing a little line in the air with her spoon to connect herself to Mike.

“I have a conference in Chicago at the end of June,” says Ben, a sudden bright smile on his face, and Richie grins widely at them all.

“What a coincidence!”

“Oh no, I don’t believe in coincidence,” Ben says.

“Magic then,” says Bev, looking up at him from where she has her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her curls are all tied up in a pale yellow scarf and she smiles up at him, peaceful and placid, her freckles standing out starkly on her pale face in the fresh morning sunshine.

“Sure,” says Ben, nodding slowly like a venerable wizard. “Magic I believe in plenty.

“You don’t believe in coincidences but you believe in magic?” Richie says. Ben just shrugs.

“We're all here aren’t we?”

Even Richie can’t argue with that, because really it all still does feel like magic, like a miracle, like they swapped out a curse for all the granted wishes in a galaxy of shooting stars.

“Chicago then?” Mike asks. “We should do the same thing we did for Richie’s birthday — all stay in one house?”

“We can find a place,” Eddie says, and Richie can see him adding it to his mental list of tasks. “We'll probably be in Chicago a little earlier than you guys, if you’re not going to be there until the end of June, but we can just wait for you.”

“You won’t get bored?” Ben asks, but Eddie just smiles at him placidly.

“I'm sure we'll find a way to pass the time,” he says, and his tone is perfectly innocent but Richie still feels his face heat up a little, and Stan snorts softly.

“What are you going to do now?” Bill asks. “Are you sticking around New York for a bit before you head out?”

“Probably,” Eddie says. “We need to rent a car, decide where we're going first?”

He looks up at Richie questioningly, but honestly Richie doesn’t give a shit where they end up, not really. What does it matter so long as they end up there together? He’s going to be with Eddie — visiting fun places and making their stupid videos and occasionally hanging out with their friends and all the while they'll be heading back to California.

Heading back home.

*

They all leave the conservatory eventually and head back to their rooms to pack their cases before they check out; Richie follows close behind Eddie and resists the urge to hold on to the hem of his hoodie, relieved when Eddie bypasses his own room and leads them both to Richie’s.

Richie hovers anxiously, no previous experience to draw on that might help him navigate the situation. He’s no stranger to the morning after — making an early escape from a stranger’s hotel room or catching a guy wordlessly creeping out of his, the thrill faded to leave behind nothing but grimy shame.

It doesn’t feel like that now, didn’t feel like that down in the bright conservatory where the only reason they were holding hands under the table was so as not to steal their best friends thunder.

This is still new and tentative and a little fragile and Richie’s trying not to get anything wrong, but he wants to touch Eddie again with fresh, fierce desperation; wants to hold him and kiss him and feel his skin against Richie’s own.

The first thing Eddie does when Richie closes the door behind them is throw open the drapes, letting the sunlight flood the room, bright and clean.

The second thing he does is back Richie against the door, digging his fingers into Richie’s waist and kissing him hungrily. All the hesitation evaporates out of Richie at once; he cups Eddie’s face and drops his jaw to let Eddie’s tongue slip past his teeth, and Eddie moans softly into his mouth.

“ _God_ ,” Eddie pulls away with a gasp. “God, _fuck_ , I wanted to touch you the whole time we were down there, I don’t know how I didn’t _explode_...”

Eddie’s kissing him again before Richie can reply, grabbing fistfuls of Richie’s t-shirt and tugging him forwards, further into the room, backing them up towards the bed. Eddie lies down and Richie follows willingly, resting his forearm next to Eddie’s head on the pillow and kissing him eagerly, drinking in the needy little whine that escapes from Eddie when Richie bites gently on his bottom lip.

There’s no hesitation from Eddie; he touches Richie like he knows exactly what he's doing, like he knows exactly what he wants, like he’s already imagined all the ways their bodies could fit together, and it occurs to Richie with a vivid little thrill that maybe he has.

_I always want you, you're all I ever wanted._

It sends a visceral burst of arousal shooting all the way through Richie; the idea of Eddie wanting him so badly he'd pictured how it might go, thought about all the ways he might want to touch or be touched, wishing for it to be real, just as Richie has been wishing for it this whole time.

He dips down just a little to press his mouth to Eddie’s throat, running his tongue softly along the warm, clean skin and making Eddie shiver against him, clutching his fists even tighter in the fabric of Richie’s shirt and then releasing his grip to ruck Richie’s shirt right up to his shoulder blades so he can run his hands all over Richie’s back. Richie returns the favour, unzipping Eddie’s hoodie and pulling away just enough to help Eddie wriggle free before he's pressing him into the mattress again, gripping Eddie’s waist and grinding firmly down against his thigh.

Richie's hard already, desperate and aching; like he hasn’t been touched for months, like he didn’t just come all over Eddie’s gorgeous stomach not ten hours ago. Eddie shifts a little to line their hips up better, slides his hands underneath the waistband of Richie's sweatpants and into his underwear to squeeze his ass tight, using his grip to pull Richie down and leverage himself up so they're pressed together tight. Richie breaks the kiss with a little gasp; Eddie’s hard too.

“Eds,” he pants against Eddie’s open mouth. “Eds I gotta...I gotta warn you, you do that again and these sweatpants are gonna be a lost cause.”

He's sort of serious, because even his frantically horny teenage self would have been embarrassed to have come in his pants after maybe fifteen minutes of making out, even if he did have Eddie’s thigh pressing between his legs and making sparks burst behind his eyes each time. Eddie laughs against his mouth and Richie thinks that maybe it’s the only thing he's ever really wanted to hear — then, now, every day in between — the sound of Eddie’s laugh curling around a kiss.

“Well,” he gasps in Richie’s ear. “We have to check out in like forty minutes, I don’t know if that’s enough time for you to fuck me properly.”

“What the _fuck_?” Richie’s barely in control of his own body now, aggressively crushing his cock against Eddie’s and revelling in Eddie’s answering groans. “Don’t say stuff like that, I swear to god...”

“Next time,” Eddie says breathlessly, and the motion of their steady grinding is rhythmic and rocking, like it would be if Richie _was_ fucking him, and god he can imagine it so clearly, Eddie’s legs around his waist, sliding into him and making him moan with pleasure and need—

“Fuck, _fuck_.” Richie’s done for; one last desperate press of their bodies together and he’s slamming a bruising kiss into Eddie’s mouth and soaking the front of his sweatpants like a hormonal little loser. There’s a momentary flash of embarrassment but it’s lost when Eddie resumes rocking up against him and Richie shoves at Eddie’s waistband to get his hand around Eddie’s cock, because he wants to make Eddie come and he wants to _feel_ it, and when Eddie clenches his jaw and spills all over his own stomach just seconds later Richie feels a bit better about his own lack of stamina. They’ve waited a long time Richie figures, it’s okay that they're both a little desperate for each other, and they have the rest of their lives to keep getting better at this. Richie’s going to have Eddie underneath him in a bed again before long, and when that happens he’s going to take his sweet time.

“Urgh,” Eddie wrinkles his nose and squirms away from Richie, stripping off his t-shirt and scrubbing at his stomach with it. Richie nuzzles into his damp skin and peppers sticky kisses all over his abs; Eddie strokes the back of Richie’s head indulgently for a second, and then wriggles out of the bed. He shucks off his pants and throws them into a corner with his t-shirt, and then disappears into the bathroom. Richie gingerly eases himself out of his sweats and boxers and sends them across the room to join Eddie’s, and then slides into the bed, pulling the covers high over his shoulders, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and cold. He thinks Eddie will probably insist they shower, or at least wash up and put clean clothes on, but Richie wants Eddie back in his arms, wants to wrap their bodies together and just breathe him in, remind himself for a few minutes that Eddie isn’t going to leave.

God, this level of clinginess is definitely going to be a test of Eddie’s patience.

He reappears from the bathroom and Richie buries his face in his pillow; easier to avoid embarrassing himself if he’s not looking at Eddie, naked and lovely and padding around Richie’s hotel room unashamed.

He doesn’t want to _ask_.

Richie’s never been good at asking for things — everything he’s ever wanted he felt like a monster for wanting it, especially when it comes to Eddie. Which is ridiculous, since Eddie’s apparently nuts enough to want him back, but Richie supposes a lifetime of trauma and internalised homophobia doesn’t get kissed away in one night.

The bed dips with Eddie’s weight, and he brushes the hair back from what he can reach of Richie’s face and his touch is tender and loving, like Richie’s something precious, and maybe being touched like that — like he matters — isn’t going to fix everything, but it’s not a bad start.

“C’mere,” Richie mutters, lifting his face from the pillow just enough to be heard and reaching round blindly to tug on Eddie’s arm.

“What?” Eddie asks, and Richie looks up properly to pout at him.

“You just made me come in my pants,” he whines. “Be a fucking gentleman and come snuggle me.”

He keeps his voice light, makes it sound like a joke, but he can feel his face heating up with something a bit like shame. Eddie laughs his snorty little kid laugh but it’s not _at_ Richie, and then he slides under the covers. He presses his warm thighs against Richie’s and tucks his face into Richie's neck, kissing at his throat, lazy and soft. The sun is higher in the sky now, shining in through the window and landing with a gleam in Eddie’s hair and on the bedspread and their clothes scattered across the carpet, like a spotlight on the fact that Richie’s naked in bed with another man but there’s no urge to shut the drapes and hide from it. He's got Eddie’s mouth on his skin and Eddie’s strong arms around his waist and god...Richie's never felt so safe.

He might be about to ruin it though.

“Eds,” he says. “I need to...I need to talk to you about something.”

Eddie pulls back, but only far enough that he can see Richie’s face; they're nose to nose, their heads resting on the same pillow.

“What’s up?”

“I need to ask you a favour, and you're going to hate it and think I'm crazy but I need to ask you anyway.”

“Okay...” Eddie raises his eyebrows a little warily, but his hands are still stroking a soothing path across the small of Richie’s back, and Richie leans in to steal a quick kiss.

“You know we were talking about where we might go, once everyone’s left and we start driving? Well...there’s something I want to do, before we start heading west, before we start filming again.”

“Something in the city?” Eddie asks, and Richie shakes his head. He closes his eyes and presses his face close to Eddie’s even though it jams his glasses against his nose awkwardly.

“I want to go back to Derry.”

Eddie’s hands stop moving and he freezes in Richie’s arms for a second, before he lets out a slow, measured breath. Then—

“Okay,” he says, and Richie pulls back, startled.

“Okay?” he says. “That’s it? No yelling, no wondering if I've finally lost it?”

“Well...” Eddie's frowning and he doesn’t look pleased, but he does resume stroking Richie’s back. “Well, it’s not what I thought you were going to say. But I assume there’s a reason? I’m guessing you don’t just want to go and soak in the atmosphere?”

“There’s a reason,” Richie says. “We don’t even have to stay in Derry, we can get a hotel room in Bangor or something and drive in. There’s just...something I need to show you.”

“This...it's not something you need the others to see too?” he asks, and Richie shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and kisses the end of Eddie’s nose. “This is strictly a Richie-and-Eddie thing.”

“No camera?”

“No camera.”

Eddie stares at him for a second — he does look a little bit worried for Richie's sanity — and then kisses his forehead, and nods.

“Okay then,” he says. “One last trip to Derry it is.”

They lie in silence for a while, Eddie scraping his nails gently up and down Richie’s spine sending tingles all over his skin, stopping every so often to press kisses to Richie's cheek or temple or mouth until Richie thinks he might melt right into the bed.

“Hey,” Richie says eventually. “Speaking of the camera, what about the show? Do we tell people that...that this happened?” He shuffles down the bed a little to press his face against Eddie's chest, grinning against his scar. “People are gonna _lose_ it.”

Richie looks up at him and Eddie's grinning devilishly, his face alive with laughter and mischief. He looks just like he did at thirteen, staring down at an abandoned mannequin in an alley, a wicked idea behind his eyes and Richie _loves_ him. Richie loves him so much it’s dizzying. It’s like stepping off the Tilt-a-Whirl at the summer fair — it sets the world spinning and his knees shaking and his stomach just a little swirly. But he'd been okay then — ended up caught and held safe in the arms of Eddie Kaspbrak — and what a fucking miracle to find himself there all over again.

“Actually,” says Eddie, “I had an idea about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


	15. Time Mystical Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re still not telling me where we’re going in the morning?” he says, his voice muffled where his face is pressed against Richie’s t-shirt.
> 
> “Nuh-uh,” Richie removes his glasses and reaches over to turn the bedside light off, before wrapping both arms back around Eddie’s shoulders and rolling him over so they’re side by side. “It’s a surprise.”
> 
> “You going to tell me why we have to be up at this asscrack of dawn for this surprise?”
> 
> Fewer people, fewer eyes, safer, safer, safer.
> 
> “It’ll make sense when we get there,” he says, and nuzzles his face against the top of Eddie’s head. “Don’t worry Eds, we’re not going to the actual town, promise. We can do the whole thing without going anywhere near Neibolt or Keene’s or any PTSD flashback triggers.”
> 
> Eddie hums thoughtfully.
> 
> “Didn’t think there was anywhere like that in Derry. No terrible memories attached to your mystery location?”
> 
> “No,” says Richie, and cups Eddie’s jaw with one hand, leaning down to kiss him properly. “Not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am incredibly sorry that this chapter is so long. When I was first planning this fic, it was supposed to be a cute little "here's a few things that happened next" chapter, 5/6k words max, but instead here's this monster.
> 
> Also, anyone who has left comments or kudos, bookmarked or subscribed to this fic — I adore you, and you have superhuman levels of patience.
> 
> So, here we go. An epilogue.

_Time, mystical time_

_Cutting me open then healing me fine_

_Were there clues I didn't see?  
  
And isn't it just so pretty to think?  
  
All along there was some invisible string_

_Tying you to me.  
  
Invisible String - Taylor Swift_

**  
GoingDownNow** @dandan I retract my previous statement, eddiek in a one-off Bev Marsh suit is all I want to look at for the foreseeable.

 **HowsThisForFast** @quigley89 Watching them dance at Bev Marsh’s wedding is like looking into the sun.

 **ReddieLives** @ellabella Their footage of the reception ends suspiciously abruptly...

*

“Eddie! Hey Eds, he's calling back, get your sweet ass over here — hi Steve!”

Eddie quickly pulls his t-shirt down and wriggles under the turquoise coverlet of their motel bed next to him, and Richie holds out his phone a little so that the screen shows both of their faces. Eddie smiles and waves, and Steve scowls at him.

“Are you two literally in bed for this call? I’m not sure I need to be seeing this.”

“Hey man, you called us, we're on east coast time remember. In the land the twenty-first century forgot—”

“You mean Maine?”

“Exactly. In our fair homeland it is well past beddie-byes.”

“Stop, stop being obnoxious, I can’t handle it right now. I’ve been in meetings with PR creeps all afternoon, I haven’t eaten in like six hours, and then I get back home and decide to check my emails—”

“Steve,” Eddie interrupts, his big worried eyes taking up half the screen as he shoves Richie out of the way. “Please go eat something, this can wait, you know low blood sugar can really—”

“I decide to check my emails!” Steve pushes on forcefully, ignoring Eddie’s concern. “And I see I have one from my ex-favourite clients — Richard 'dead to me' Tozier and his _boyfriend_ Eddie _._ Congrats by the way, I’m glad you finally sorted your shit out, neither of you are subtle, Eddie I hope you know what you signed up for etcetera etcetera—”

Richie’s trying very hard to pay attention, but his brain turned into fucking cotton candy at the word “boyfriend” and Steve’s voice seems to suddenly be coming from somewhere very far away.

Boyfriend — he has a _boyfriend_. He, Richie Tozier, has a boyfriend, and that boyfriend is Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie’s pretty sure the glow is never going to wear off.

“Richie!” Steve snaps, yanking Richie back to reality. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I'm hanging on your every word Steve, as always. You don’t think it's a funny idea?”

Steve presses a hand to his face and tips his entire head backwards like he can’t bear to look at them anymore; it sounds like he might be doing Eddie’s breathing exercises.

“Let me just check I'm following you,” he says, his gaze still fixed on his ceiling. “Even though you finally worked things out you want to keep it a secret because you think it'll be funny to wind up your fans by acting _even more_ like a couple than you do already, but still insisting you aren’t actually together? Have I understood your stupid plan right?”

There’s a ringing silence, and Steve faces the camera again to glare at them both suspiciously, like a grouchy teacher that’s waiting for one of them to crack and admit to releasing a box of frogs from the bio classroom into the teacher's lounge.

Richie should really be paying closer attention to Steve, but it’s hard when the little box in the corner of the screen shows Eddie leaning against Richie’s shoulder, sleepy-sweet face and freshly washed curls and eyes galaxy-dark in the dimly lit room.

“That’s about the size of it, yeah,” Richie grins as Steve groans in frustration.

“Richie, do you realize how much extra work this is going to be? We're going to have to go through every video with a fine-toothed comb to make sure there’s nothing _too_ revealing in any of them, and every time you get stopped in the street or you reply to a comment on YouTube you're going to have to be careful about what you say, how you phrase things. You tweet each other constantly, there’s no way you're not going to get carried away and fucking _out yourselves_.”

Eddie gives a snuffly laugh, muffled against Richie’s t-shirt, and Richie leans to the side to press a clumsy kiss into Eddie’s hair.

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, you’re both very cute.” He frowns at them deeply. “Who else do I need to be keeping tabs on then, to keep this up? I assume the rest of Bill Denbrough's death cult knows?”

“Death cult?” Eddie pulls away a little to look up at Richie, confused.

“The Losers,” Richie explains, and Eddie gives a soft snort of derision.

“We would be the lamest fucking death cult,” he mutters, before snuggling back into Richie’s side complacently.

A day out of New York and all the Losers had ended up on the same video call, admiring the gorgeous view of Venice from Bev and Ben's balcony and wishing Mike good luck for his job interview, before Richie had pushed past the flurry of butterflies and cleared his throat obnoxiously loud.

“Edward Spaghedward and I would also like to share some news,” he said, and all their politely interested expressions suddenly looked like a faceless, judgemental audience, and he’d looked down at Eddie for support. Eddie, pretty uselessly, had flushed bright red and said “umm...” but then Mike had laughed and Bill had said “ _finally_ ” and Bev had shouted “I knew it! I _knew_ you both left the reception at the same time!” and Ben had said “at our wedding? Not cool guys” while he shook his head and beamed at them, and like Bill had predicted, the whole thing had been comfortingly anticlimactic.

“Yeah,” Richie says to Steve. “Yeah, they know.”

“So _they'll_ all need to be careful with what they say about you in public as well, Kelly’s going to have to watch all of their Twitter and Instagram accounts _constantly_ —”

“She does anyway,” Richie protests. “She’s obsessed with Bev.”

“They're going to have to be careful of every picture they put up of you, anything they tweet or mention in an interview or say in any of your videos and...remember how I said one day you'd give me a stress-related heart attack and I’d send you all my medical bills and then quit? It's shit like this I'm talking about. I get that _you_ think it’s funny, but—”

“Steve. Steven Covall, world's greatest manager and best Steven we know,” Richie looks down at Eddie, who nods solemnly in confirmation. “Best Steven we know, I'm going to have to cut you off right there. I need you to understand one fundamentally important aspect of this whole plan.”

Normally Richie would push it, wind him up a little bit further and get him really crabby, but it’s late and they have an early start in the morning and as entertaining as Steve’s collection of pissed-off faces usually is, right now it’s cutting into valuable Eddie-cuddling time. Their legs are slotted together under the colourful covers and Eddie smells comfortingly of toothpaste and shampoo and Richie wants nothing more than to lie down, wrap Eddie up in his arms and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.

“Which is what?” Steve says, sharply.

“It was Eddie’s idea.”

Steve freezes, and his gaze flicks from one to the other. He looks a little tired and a little irritated and a bit like he can feel the stress-ulcers growing in real time, but the corners of his mouth are turned up very slightly. For a brief moment Richie is reminded vividly of Stan, exasperated but indulgent.

Then Steve sighs heavily and shakes his head.

“You fucking deserve each other.”

Steve hangs up eventually, grumbling about all the extra work he’s going to have to do but gamely agreeing to do it anyway, and Richie throws his phone onto the floor in favour of dragging a yelping Eddie down under the covers and squeezing him ferociously. A little wrestling match breaks out but eventually he decides to stop fighting, presses a messy kiss to Richie’s jaw and then drapes himself bonelessly across Richie’s chest.

“You’re still not telling me where we’re going in the morning?” he says, his voice muffled where his face is pressed against Richie’s t-shirt.

“Nuh-uh,” Richie removes his glasses and reaches over to turn the bedside light off, before wrapping both arms back around Eddie’s shoulders and rolling him over so they’re side by side. “It’s a surprise.”

“You going to tell me why we have to be up at this asscrack of dawn for this surprise?”

_Fewer people, fewer eyes, safer, safer, safer._

“It’ll make sense when we get there,” he says, and nuzzles his face against the top of Eddie’s head. “Don’t worry Eds, we’re not going to the actual town, promise. We can do the whole thing without going anywhere near Neibolt or Keene’s or any PTSD flashback triggers.”

Eddie hums thoughtfully.

“Didn’t think there was anywhere like that in Derry. No terrible memories attached to your mystery location?”

“No,” says Richie, and cups Eddie’s jaw with one hand, leaning down to kiss him properly. “Not anymore.”

*

The air is early-morning fresh when they get out of the car, the breeze rustling through the leafy canopy overhead and making the sunlight dance in wavering beams of gold around them. The silence is only broken by the birdsong and the rushing river and their feet crunching on the beaten dirt track as they make their way slowly from the road to the bridge.

So different, so different from the suffocating press of the unbreathable August humidity, the sun searing into his back while he knelt and carved and trembled, fear and exertion making him sweat right through his shirt. Now the sunshine is gentle, the air sweet and the breeze crisp and clean — a different day, a different Richie.

“What're we doing here Rich?” says Eddie, turning at the very start of the bridge to look back at him, head tilted curiously. “Are we making a pilgrimage to the place Ben was almost gutted by Bowers? Is this why you brought a pocket knife, just in case his zombie-form comes out of the water?”

“Eds, you're so fucking morbid.” Richie draws level with him and his eyes rake across the faded, twisted wood panels that make up the side of the bridge, carved up and graffitied by generations of naive, stupid kids. It looks just the same, and his hands shake a little as he takes his first tentative step onto the actual bridge, hearing Eddie’s footsteps following behind.

For a second Richie thinks this whole trip was for nothing. Maybe it’s been worn away by time, maybe the old wood has been replaced; maybe it was all in his head, maybe he was never brave enough to come here and carve his love for Eddie Kaspbrak into something tangible.

But then he sees it.

R + E.

He points wordlessly.

“What is it? What am I looking for, this weird scribble here that looks like a — oh.”

Richie can’t look at him, keeps his watery eyes fixed on the faded carving in front of him, and hears Eddie let out a shivery breath.

“Wow,” he says gently, after a minute of silence. “When did you...when did you do this?”

“That summer,” says Richie, his voice so shaky and quiet he can barely hear himself over the gushing noise of the river. He sniffs, and Eddie shuffles a little closer to him, reaches into Richie’s pocket and pulls his hand out, threading their fingers together. Richie can’t help it, the instinct to check that no one is watching is too deeply ingrained in him to fight, and clown or no clown, Derry is its own monster. But they're still alone with the river and the birds and the bridge. “When me and Bill were fighting and none of us were hanging out and you were on house arrest. It was the first time I really...realised what it meant. How I felt about you, I mean.” His hand tightens reflexively around Eddie’s, and Eddie squeezes back. “It was the first time I admitted to myself it probably wasn’t going away, and I couldn’t tell anyone but I had to...to put it somewhere. So...” He sniffs again, and gestures with their joined hands at the carving.

“Well,” says Eddie, in a suspiciously shaky voice. “I get why you brought a knife now.”

“Yeah,” says Richie, with a weak little laugh. “I got worried that maybe it wouldn’t be here, that the wood might have been replaced or fixed up or something, so I thought I’d just tell you about it and we could do it again. I wanted to come here before we all left Derry last year but I couldn’t think of an excuse.”

He wonders suddenly, in a world where Eddie and Stan never came back, whether he would’ve managed to make this detour on his way out of Derry. Where they hadn’t left all together in a big messy group but separately, their friendships forever sundered by their irreplaceable loss. Maybe that Richie knelt here alone and re-carved this sad little missive of love, the only confession he ever got to make, a Richie that never got to know the kind, crazy, wonderful person grown-up Eddie really is, a Richie that never got to find out that Eddie loved him back.

Richie's crying in earnest now; he can picture it so clearly, can feel the grief and the loss almost as acutely as if Eddie wasn’t standing right next to him, releasing his hand to slide his arm around Richie’s waist and letting Richie bury his stupid, teary face in his nice clean hair.

After a minute or two, Eddie dips his hand into Richie’s jacket pocket and comes out with the knife. Richie wipes his face clumsily and then holds out his shaking hands to take it, but Eddie gives him a soft smile and shakes his head.

“It's my turn now,” he says, and kneels down in the grass in front of Richie’s carving, hands steady and little pink tongue just poking out of the corner of his mouth as he meticulously scrapes the knife over the letters until the carving is new and clear and vivid again. He folds the knife and slips it back into Richie’s pocket, before winding his arms around Richie’s shoulders and pulling him down into a proper hug. “The other half of a promise,” he whispers into Richie’s ear. “That’s what they used to say about the kissing bridge right, when we were kids? That carving your initials here was like a promise?”

“Uh huh.” Richie presses his face down onto Eddie’s shoulder for a second to rally himself, and then pulls away just enough to see Eddie’s face while still keeping him in his arms. “Know what that means?”

“What?”

“You're stuck with me now. No take-backs, bonded for life by bridge magic.”

Eddie laughs; too loud, gloriously loud in the peaceful silence of the morning and Richie picks him up and spins him around, kissing the sound right out of his mouth in the bright spring sunshine and doesn’t give a shit who sees.

*

They don’t spend any more time in Derry than they have to, and the whole time they’re eating lunch and wandering around Bangor in the sun, Eddie’s quiet and distant. Richie touches and teases and Eddie smiles and laughs and touches back, but his head is clearly somewhere else, and when they get back to their motel room just as the sun is setting, he sits down on the bed and Richie sits in front of him.

“What’s going on in your head Spaghed?”

“Nothing, I’m okay,” he says, and he laughs slightly when Richie pulls an exaggeratedly suspicious face. “No, I am! I’m just…picturing it, I guess. You at thirteen on that bridge…there was Bowers and Hockstetter and…imagine if they’d seen you Richie.”

“Are you risk-analysing my romantic teenage love confession? Eddie!” He throws a hand over his face dramatically. “Eddie, you were doing so well, you were so strong, to relapse now…” He clamps his hands around Eddie’s ankles, drags him down the bed so that he’s lying down and drapes himself across Eddie’s entire body. “Fight it Eddie, fight those terrible cravings to analyse risk! I’ll have to revoke your three-month sober badge.”

“Stop it, shut up, get off me!” Eddie shrieks, giggling and wrestling.

“It’s not worth derailing your progress for Eddie, you were a terrible risk analyst anyway.”

“ _Excuse me_?” Eddie pulls back, looking affronted. “I was an excellent risk analyst. Just because it made me fucking miserable doesn’t mean I wasn’t good at it.”

“No, I don’t trust your judgement at all, not when you’ve known me for more than thirty years and still went _yep, that’s the idiot for me, definitely worth the risk_.”

“You’re full of _shit_ ,” says Eddie, and his voice is gentle even as he’s wrestling out from under Richie to flip them, pinning Richie to the bed and straddling him.

“Oh! Is this where you’re taking this evening?” he says with a grin, wriggling his hips.

“Shush,” says Eddie. “I’m talking—”

“You’re _always_ talking,” says Richie. “I can never get a word in edgeways.”

“Oh that is fucking rich!” Eddie says, his face scrunching up in outrage, and Richie grins.

“Actually, I think it’s _you_ that’s fucking Ri—”

“No,” says Eddie, and presses his hand over Richie’s mouth. Richie shuts up obediently, and Eddie pecks a little kiss on the end of his nose. “Shush, it’s _listen to Eddie_ time. I’m saying it was risky, because it _was_ , but I just mean…when I think about that gangly little dork…” He smiles fondly. “I just can’t believe how brave you were.”

He removes his hand slowly, and Richie shakes his head.

“Honestly, the idea of Bowers or whoever catching me wasn’t the scary thing. I think I was more afraid of _you_ catching me. I was always so scared you’d figure out how I…how I felt about you and you’d hate me for it, or be uncomfortable or...or afraid of me.”

“Rich…” Eddie smoothes the wayward hair back from Richie’s forehead soothingly. “Richie, I was very sheltered and very repressed and I was afraid of fucking everything, but I’d never have been afraid of you. There’s nothing you could’ve done that would’ve made me hate you. I was crazy about you.”

“I know that _now_.” He manages a smile, but it quickly turns sad; he can feel it himself, can see it when Eddie’s face falls slightly. “God…all that time. All that time wasted — more than half of our lives Eds.”

“I know,” Eddie shifts, dismounting Richie’s hips and lying down again, cuddling close so they’re nose-to-nose on Richie’s pillow. “But listen, I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and talking to Mike—”

“Uh oh.”

“I know, but here me out. Mike was talking about parallel universes right? Like…every possible reality happens somewhere? So, in at least one reality, me and Stan never came back. The five of you left Derry without us and this—” he nuzzles Richie’s nose with his own, a little ache flowering in Richie’s chest at the tenderness, “—never happened. Right?”

Richie closes his eyes and nods, because it’s the only thing he can trust himself to do when the ghost of that reality has hung over his head the whole day.

“So…comparatively…losing those years…” Eddie sighs and frowns. “It sucked Richie, it _sucked_ that we all lost each other for so long, and that we were lonely and afraid and miserable. But, when you think about what could have happened, I don’t think we should take the good bits for granted. We survived that bullshit twice, we found each other again…maybe we don’t live in the best universe but this definitely isn’t the worst.”

He kisses Richie softly, presses their foreheads together and runs his thumbs along Richie’s jaw gently.

“And I think,” he goes on, in a whisper. “I think there’s a universe out there where I never grew up in Derry, never fought the clown, maybe my dad didn’t die when I was a kid so my mom never went off the rails, and I grew up without all the trauma and stuff.” He pulls back and Richie opens his eyes, and Eddie looks at him with ferocious eyes. “But in that universe I probably also grew up without you, and I know which Eddie I’d rather be, because even if that one had an easier time of things, he didn’t have you, so he’s…I don’t know…only half a fucking person. So yeah Rich, you’re worth any risk, any trauma — I literally died for you.”

Eddie laughs, and Richie wraps his arms around his waist to squeeze him closer, pressing their bodies together like he might apply pressure to a wound, to staunch the bleeding or dull the pain.

“Don’t joke about it.”

“Oh, so it’s only you who’s allowed to make crappy jokes about whatever you want?” Eddie teases, pinching his waist.

“Yes,” Richie says. “It’s my right, you all gave it to me with the nickname Trashmouth.” He buries his face in Eddie’s chest. “I’d have died for you too, by the way. In case it wasn’t obvious.”

“No more death,” Eddie says quietly. “No more monsters, just me and you.”

“Just me and you,” Richie confirms with a nod, and he can feel Eddie smiling against the top of his head.

“And the rest of Bill Denbrough's death cult, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Richie pulls away a little so he can see Eddie’s face, is rewarded with that sweet-sharp smile that makes Richie’s eyes water and tightens his jaw, like biting lemons, and he reaches up to kiss Eddie, hoping he can taste the devotion. Eddie’s mouth moves against his without hesitation, hot and eager, and for all it took them months of dancing around each other like oblivious morons to get to this point, some things have come to them so fucking easy. Richie had been ready for a little awkwardness, had thought that just because he had spent so long daydreaming about kissing his best friend, didn’t necessarily mean that the reality wouldn’t be weird, at least at first. But god, every time Eddie kisses him, all he can think is _why haven’t we been doing this the whole time?_

Muscle-memory, he thinks, even if those memories are borrowed from another Richie Tozier, another Eddie Kaspbrak, because there’s one reality Eddie forgot to mention, where he asked Richie a question and Richie said yes and at sixteen they both left Derry together. A life together, with no twenty-five year gap in the middle to let loneliness grow deep into their hearts, leaving them rusty and neglected and unfit for purpose.

 _Lucky fuckers_ , he thinks, but without malice, with only a wistful hint of envy. Eddie’s right, after all — at least they’re here now, and he can’t begrudge any versions of their teenage selves the possibility of a happier future.

Eddie slides his fingers into Richie’s hair and Richie rolls on top of him to press him into the mattress, and it doesn’t take long before they’re both grinding against each other urgently, because maybe the shine of finally having each other like this will never wear off, but one thing they’ve both always known is exactly how to get the other all riled up.

Richie reaches down to tug at the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt, and backs off a little so that Eddie can sit up slightly in an impressively-extended crunch to strip it off and toss it onto the floor. The thin heather fabric of his shorts is already tenting obscenely and Richie’s mouth waters; he urges Eddie to lie back down again and takes his time working his mouth down Eddie’s torso, flicking his tongue over his nipples to make him gasp and pausing, as he always does, to leave one lingering kiss against the scar.

The further down Richie gets, the less in control his movements are, and by the time he's running his tongue in between the grooves of Eddie’s abs Richie's grinding himself against the mattress furiously, and he has no choice but to shoves his entire face into Eddie’s stomach for a second before he blows all over the sheets and cuts this very fun evening prematurely short.

“What are you _doing_?” Eddie’s voice shakes with some combination of laughter and lust, and Richie dips the tip of his tongue into Eddie’s bellybutton, just to make him squirm.

“I'm appreciating your toned abs,” he says against Eddie’s skin, and it must tickle because the muscles suddenly clench under his mouth. “They’re hot as fuck and you're so boring about them—”

“Shove it,” says Eddie breathlessly, as Richie presses open-mouthed kisses to the skin along his waistband. “It’s not about hot, it’s good to work on your core. It helps with your posture, so you put less pressure on your spine, and that way – ow! Did you just _bite_ me?”

“Yes,” says Richie, doing it again. “You look fucking delicious.”

Eddie breaks down into helpless giggles, one hand pressed over his entire face, and Richie’s never wanted anything in his life more than he wants Eddie Kaspbrak's cock in his mouth, and thirty seconds later Eddie stops laughing and Richie's mind is blissfully quiet.

*

 **ReddieLives** @ellabella Ah, the intricate rituals of picking up your best friend bridal style and pretending to throw him over Niagara Falls…

 **PhiltheLizard** @phillizard Overheard at the rock hall — “Eds look, you can get married here!”

 **HoHoHope** @hohohope I wonder if Eddie knows it’s not normal bro behaviour to wipe chocolate sauce from your pal’s mouth with your thumb and then lick it off?

*

It’s a fresh, sunny morning the Friday they make it to the tall, slate-gray townhouse Eddie booked for them in Chicago, almost a week before the other Losers are due to arrive. It’s a good week; they spend a bit of time fucking about at Navy Pier and explore a few of Richie’s old haunts from college and his early-twenties, but with an entire house to themselves — with king-sized beds and a huge rain-head shower — it’s not exactly hard to find ways to pass to the time.

Bev and Ben are the next couple to arrive, late on Thursday evening, and Richie is so pleased to see them it almost makes up for the fact that it probably means no more sex in the shared bathroom. They fall into a companionable routine for the weekend. Ben and Eddie get up early to drink twenty-ingredient smoothies that look like pond water and then go running in Lincoln Park, and by the time they get back Richie and Bev are waiting in rainbow-striped lawn chairs on the wide wooden patio with coffee and toast, ready to watch them do their cool-down stretches on the sun-warmed grass.

“So,” Bev turns to him early on Sunday morning, cozy-comfy in Ben's faded UN Lincoln sweater, her curls in a messy knot on top of her head to show off her new undercut. Ben and Eddie have only been back a couple of minutes; the sun is still hidden behind the high treeline and Richie pulls his hoodie tighter against the early morning chill.

“So?”

“How is Eddie “annoying bastard” Kaspbrak’s plan going?” she asks, and Richie laughs so loudly and suddenly that Ben and Eddie both freeze in very precariously balanced positions to stare at them.

“Bev, he’s a little shit, and I love him so much,” he says, and she laughs softly into her coffee. “It’s so funny, it’s funnier than anything I’ve ever done in my entire life. Every time he...fucking...touches my elbow or something in a video the whole of Twitter turns into that meme from It’s Always Sunny. We were guests on this girl’s YouTube channel while we were still in Ohio and she was asking us about it, and Eddie just breaks out his Disney princess eyes and goes _he’s my best friend in the world,_ all innocent, like he wasn’t running his hand up my fucking thigh under the table.”

“Man,” Bev laughs. “Sometimes I think you were right when we were all in Bill’s room at the townhouse back in Derry, remember? You said that it was unfair everyone thought _you_ were the little shit when he was ten times worse, he just had the cute little freckled face to get away with it.”

“Exactly!” Richie exclaims, sloshing coffee onto his sweatpants in his enthusiasm. “We were a terrible influence on each other, in hindsight. I could spend an entire day with Stan and be somewhere calm-adjacent but five minutes with Eddie...” He shakes his head ruefully, but Bev laughs in delight.

“And here you are, almost thirty years later, still goading each other into stupid pranks probably only the two of you find funny. It’s Pennywise the Mannequin all over again.”

“Did Ben tell you about that?” Richie asks, grinning when she nods. “That was Eddie’s idea too, you know.”

“I’m guessing you are going to tell everyone eventually though?” she asks. “That the, _oh we’re just good friends_ thing has been a long con the whole time?”

“Oh yeah,” Richie says casually, as though the mere thought of Eddie wanting to keep him a secret hadn’t nearly caused a meltdown a few weeks ago. “Once we’re back in LA. We’ve already started drafting the video.”

“What about your show after that?” Bev asks. “Assuming you have any fans left, after this. Are you one and done, or are you going back out again?”

“We haven’t decided yet,” Richie says. “We were talking about doing something with Bill and Mike, some kind of weird urban legends tour but if we do it won’t be for a while. We need to...settle for a bit, I think, figure out how this is going to work when we’re not on the road all the time.” Bev raises her eyebrows in gentle surprise, and he pulls a face at her. “What?”

“You sound so happy,” she says softly. “I’m just really proud of you both.”

“Don’t,” he whines, reaching out with one leg to kick her slippers off her feet. “Don’t be sincere with me, it’s too early.”

And he’ll cry if he thinks about it, because he knows that Richie of a year ago would have had to panic-vomit at the mere thought of being one half of a functioning couple, and even now the idea that he might make a mess of this is itching at the back of his mind like a scratchy tag in a t-shirt.

Bev takes the opportunity to rescue her slippers from the patio and then proceeds to attack him with them, leading to a pinch-fight that provides a great distraction from his brewing inner turmoil, even if he does end up losing.

“What about your tour?” she asks, once Richie has pleadingly conceded defeat. She falls back into her lawn chair comfortably, reclaiming her plate of half-eaten toast from the decorative iron table in between them. “You ready to give it another shot?”

“No,” he says, and she looks at him in surprise.

“That sounds pretty final.”

“I'm too old Bev,” he says, and he smiles when she laughs at him. “I’m deadly fucking serious. Dragging my sorry ass up and down the country, living exclusively on shitty food and drinking too much because I’m bored and depressed in cities where no one knows me? That was fine in my twenties but it’ll kill me at forty-one, and I got shit to live for now. Besides...” he hesitates, but Bev won’t laugh at him. Well, she might, but she won’t mean it. “Besides, I can’t be away from Eddie for months out of the year. We spent twenty-five years without each other, I can’t afford to lose any more time.”

“Yeah,” she says softly, reaching over to give his arm a little squeeze. “So...what will you do, if not tour?”

“I’ve got stuff lined up,” he says. “Me and Bill are writing this book together and Steve lined me up for some voice acting work. He also heard on the grapevine that Saturday Night Live might come a’calling.” He waggles his eyebrows at her and makes her hoot with laughter. “What? I’d be a great host!” he says, mock-outraged.

“Honey, you’ll be magic,” she agrees. “I was just thinking, it’s like little teen-Richie’s dream come true.”

“Man,” he says softly, “my entire fucking life right now is more than teen-Richie would have ever dared to dream about. The Losers are all still best friends. I’m gonna host Saturday Night Live. I live in California, and I never have to set foot in Derry again. And not only do I have a boyfriend, and not only can I kiss my boyfriend in public, that boyfriend is Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Bev looks at him knowingly, the way she had occasionally looked at him when they were kids and he and Eddie were screaming insults at each other but breathless with laughter the entire time.

“Go teen-Richie,” she says softly.

“Yeah,” he says, sniffing resolutely. "Sometimes I wish I could go back in time you know? Just for five minutes, just so I could tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"Well, not everything, obviously. If I told thirteen-year-old Richie that one day he’ll kiss Eddie Kaspbrak and Eddie Kaspbrak will _kiss him back,_ man...the poor little loser would catch fire or something. I just wish I could tell him,” he shrugs, “that it’ll be okay. Like, he’ll be miserable for a while, and lonely, and bits of it are going to suck beyond the telling of it, but eventually...it’s all going to be okay. I wish I could tell him he’ll be happy.”

“The important thing is that you are happy,” she says, raising up her arms to Ben as he steps up suddenly onto the patio. He bends down to scoop Beverly up into his arms and sits down on her sun lounger, cuddling her comfortably in his lap, and she smiles and closes her eyes as she leans against his shoulder. Eddie walks straight past them and into the house, but reappears a minute later with a glass of water, and Richie reaches an arm out to snag him around the waist and drag him down to sit. He nestles himself in between Richie's legs and Richie tightens his grip around Eddie’s torso, kissing lazily at the little junction where his neck meets his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t Rich, I’m all sweaty,” he says, reaching over to steal a slice of toast from Richie’s plate.

“I know,” Richie says in a low voice, swiping up the little beads of moisture from the nape of Eddie’s neck with his tongue.

“You are so gross,” Eddie sighs, but he can’t mind that much — seconds later he's turning his head to give Richie a clumsy, sticky kiss that tastes of coffee and honey, letting out a pleased little hum when Richie reaches up a hand to cup his jaw and encourage him closer. Richie breaks the kiss to run the tip of his nose up and down the bridge of Eddie’s for a second, and then pulls away to take a bite out of the piece of toast Eddie’s holding, earning a little grumble of protest as Eddie settles back against his chest. 

“When is everyone else getting here?” Ben asks, swiping Eddie’s abandoned glass of water from the table and drinking half of it while Eddie’s distracted.

“Mike and Bill land at two,” Eddie says immediately. “And Stan and Patty at three-thirty.”

“Aw,” Richie coos, “do you have their flight times written in your itinerary? Did you book the Lyfts for them all? You gonna text Mike and remind him to use a proper neck pillow?”

“No,” mutters Eddie, with a scowl that means Richie is probably right.

“Ah, you're such a good mom friend Eddie,” says Ben. “I don’t know how we all survived without you.”

“Yeah, I wonder about it too,” he says, only a little sourly. “What else do we need to do before everyone gets here?”

“Grocery shopping, at least,” Richie says. “Fuck, I need to find a pharmacy as well, I need to fill my prescription before we leave Chicago.”

“I did it,” Eddie says, turning slightly to look up at him again. “The pharmacy is on Lincoln avenue, I put it in while we were running yesterday, we can pick it up later today.”

He turns away again, munching his toast complacently, and Richie hugs him a little tighter but shuts the fuck up, because it might be funny when Eddie fusses over all the other Losers, but it still makes something inside Richie light up when he’s the one on the receiving end of all of Eddie’s ferocious affection and care.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, face pressed against Eddie’s damp hair.

“S’okay,” says Eddie with a shrug, as if it’s nothing to love someone as well as he loves Richie, and the four of them sit together in comfortable silence, sipping their coffee and watching the sun finally rise above the treeline. 

*

 **Vickers95:** Eddie and Ben are the cutest, look at them doing yoga in the back garden in Chicago.

 **TrainingWeelz:** Look really closely when Mike runs past and picks Eddie up…

 **BlueandYou:** Does Eddie have a hickey on the inside of his thigh?!?

*

The tangerine-coloured bedcover slithers to the ground, to rest on the cream carpet along with the haphazard pile of their clothes, torn off and discarded the minute they shut the door of the motel room, overlooking Racine North Beach on the coast of Lake Michigan. Eddie drove the whole way from Chicago, and there had been a slightly wild look in his eyes when they’d finally decided to stop for the night that Richie had initially thought was exhaustion.

He’d been wrong, but happily so.

Eddie’s in his lap again, one hand tight in Richie’s hair and the other bracing himself against the rustic wooden headboard, Richie’s cock buried deep inside him. He’d moved slowly at first, shifting tentatively and hesitantly as he struggled to find a rhythm, but apparently he’s hit some sweet spot now because he’s rocking against Richie in earnest and letting frantic, desperate noises escape from him every time Richie thrusts upwards. Richie’s face is pressed against Eddie’s collarbone, his mouth open so his tongue can catch the little beads of sweat running down from Eddie’s neck, his fingers kissing bruises into Eddie’s hips as he grips him tight.

Eddie leans down to lick messily at Richie’s throat, winding his way up until he’s breathing heavily right in Richie’s ear, grinding down in a tight little circle and panting out Richie’s name over-and-over in a gasping little litany. He’s tugging at the short hairs at the very nape of Richie’s neck, sending bolts of arousal down Richie’s spine and turning his thrusts erratic and clumsy, and Eddie's hand that was planted on the headboard comes down between them. Eddie gets his long fingers around himself and Richie barely has time to get a hand down to help before Eddie’s entire body is tensing and he’s coming over both of them with a cracked little moan of Richie’s name.

He leans his face against the top of Richie’s head for a second, winded, and Richie gets his hands around Eddie’s waist to try and lift him a little, get some space in between them so Richie can pull out, his mind already full of anticipatory visions of jerking himself off onto Eddie’s chest.

“No,” Eddie whispers, gripping Richie’s shoulders tight. “Don’t move, don’t — just give me a second.”

“Eds…” he gasps, as Eddie starts to rock against him. He’s cautious again, probably oversensitive, and Richie tries desperately to hold himself still but Eddie recovers quickly and soon Richie can feel that familiar, tugging heat. “Eds, do you…do you want to…I’m not wearing a—”

“I know,” Eddie soothes, his words gentle even as movements speed up, his clean hand back in Richie’s hair. “I know, it’s okay, I want you to.”

“Fuck…”

“Come on Rich, you can do it, I want it. You made me feel so good — you always do — it’s your turn now.”

He’s kissing at Richie’s hairline, burying his nose in Richie’s sweaty hair and _God dammit_ , never in his life did Richie imagine anyone would ever want him this much, let alone Eddie fucking Kaspbrak.

“Come on Rich, come on sweetheart—”

It’s so _embarrassing_ that it’s the pet name that tips him over the edge but it snaps him like a bowstring and he’s digging his teeth into the muscle of Eddie’s shoulder, digging his heels into the mattress and coming deep in the clutch of Eddie’s body.

“Fuck…” Richie gasps, and Eddie lets out a breathless little laugh. “What?” 

“Whoever’s in the room next door is gonna _hate_ us.”

*

 **EddiesShortShorts** @littlebelle Look at them dancing in front of the stage at the fair in Milwaukee I could cry!

 **GoingDownNow** @dandan Eddie’s got a helluva throw! Richie’s face when he wins him the stuffed turtle from the carnival game is literally 🥺

 **PhiltheLizard** @phillizard When they’re crossing the spoonbridge in the Sculpture garden in Minneapolis why does Richie say “it’s like valentine’s day for giants?” They’re both so weird…

 **ReddieLives** @ellabella In the clip where they’re at the rockies museum I SWEAR if you listen closely Richie calls Eddie babe…

*

In Seattle it rains — just a little, but Richie tries hard to focus on the whisper against the glass of the hotel room window so he doesn’t completely shake apart.

Eddie continues winding his slow path of open-mouthed kisses up Richie’s thighs, seemingly content to take his time, tapping into some previously unused reserve of patience until Richie’s trembling and desperate and hard as nails.

“Eds…”

“Hmm?”

“Eddie…”

“Mmhmm?”

“Eddie, please…”

“Please what?”

“Edward Kaspbrak, will you please just — ow! Why are you _biting_ me?”

Eddie looks up at him from underneath his lashes, his mouth twisted in a wicked little grin and still pressed against the inside of Richie’s thigh.

“Because you look fucking delicious.”

*

 **MarshMallows** @antsinpants Is it true that Cary Hollway is dating James Adebayo? What a BevMarsh power couple!

 **HowsThisForFast** @quigley89 Remember when we all thought he was dating EddieK from the Two Losers webshow?

 **HoHoHope** @hohohope I think they are friends because the four of them are in the San Francisco episode having dinner with Marsh and hubby 

**ReddieLives** @ellebella Richie literally calls it a triple date…

*

They pull up to Richie’s apartment complex and park their rental behind Eddie’s neglected Escalade, and Richie looks over at him sitting in the driver’s seat and has the sudden urge to grab for him, like he thinks Eddie might get out of the car and instantly disappear. Time on the road feels so liminal; now they’re back here in California, in LA, in Richie’s apartment — it’s like getting back to reality, like what happens now _matters_ in a way it doesn’t when they’re travelling.

They grab their cases from the back of the car and drag them into the lobby, before taking the elevator up to Richie’s apartment, and Richie hesitates outside the door, like he’s not sure what might be waiting for them on the inside.

“Hey, this stuff is heavy, are we going inside or are you trying to win a staring contest with your fucking peephole?” Eddie says, poking him in the back with his elbow, making Richie snort with laughter and dragging him out of his melancholy.

“I dunno, it feels monumental to be back here,” he says, and grins. “I feel like I should be carrying you over the threshold or something.”

“Dingus, we didn’t get married!” Eddie laughs, and Richie can’t help that he can almost hear the _yet_ on the end of Eddie’s sentence. “But if you want to try lifting me and all these cases at the same time then go ahead.”

“Yeah, you’re right, maybe the best way to celebrate being back in LA isn’t with a back injury,” he says, and unlocks the door. 

The air inside is humid and stale after an entire LA summer with no air conditioning and no ventilation, and Eddie immediately drops his bags to throw all the windows open. Richie follows him into the apartment hesitantly; Eddie’s checking on practical things like the state of the fridge and the hot water system, but all Richie can focus on is the neatly folded blanket and cushion on the sofa from the night Eddie spent there rather than sleeping in a bed with Richie, his last message written in now sun-faded ink on the refrigerator whiteboard. But then Eddie — whirling dervish of organisation — is scooping up the blankets to throw them into the little wicker basket where they live, and on his second inspection of the fridge he absently wipes the message away, leaving the whiteboard a clean, blank slate. Then he picks up the pen, magnetically attached to the fridge door, and gives Richie a little smile before reaching out and writing a new message.

R+E. 

*

 **GoingDownNow** @dandan So they’re back in LA now and Eddie just…lives with Richie?

 **HowsThisForFast** @quigley89 Everyone sees Eddie literally sitting in Richie’s lap on Bill’s sofa right?

 **ReddieLives** @ellabella When Richie’s pretending to be a tour guide in his apartment, there are no sheets on the bed in the guest room…

 **HoHoHope** @hohohope There is no way anyone sleeps in that second bedroom at Richie’s place right?

*

“Wow,” Eddie’s eyes are soft and teasing as he takes in the scene in front of him, a smile curling his mouth. The scar on his cheek is hardly visible these days, but when he really smiles it shows, cutting through the dimple on that side and making his smile a little crooked, making Richie’s heart go all fluttery. “Bubbles and candles and everything — I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

“Yes, you did,” says Richie softly, and even though his glasses steamed up a little bit when he first slipped into the bathtub, he’s glad he kept them on now so he gets a perfect view of Eddie quickly stripping out of his t-shirt and shorts, balancing himself on Richie’s shoulders as he gingerly lowers himself into the water. He takes Richie’s glasses off on his way down, placing them carefully next to the sink.

“It’s hot,” he mutters appreciatively, settling back against Richie’s chest with a little hum of contentment. 

“Yeah, I know you get chilly in water anything below boiling point,” says Richie, running his fingers through Eddie’s hair until it’s all off his face, and then settling his hands over the scar on Eddie’s chest, tracing the firework shape with his thumbs.

“What’s the occasion?” Eddie asks. “Why am I being wooed?”

“Can’t I surprise you with cliché gestures of romance without all this suspicion? We’re in LA, I’ve got to keep my game up with all these Hollywood hotties lining the streets — ouch!” He laughs as Eddie pinches the tender inside of his thigh, and gently scrapes his teeth over the muscle of Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay, how about because it’s your birthday?”

“Not until the week after next,” says Eddie, stroking his way up Richie’s calf with his toes and making Richie shiver even in the heat of the water and the steam-filled bathroom. “And I thought we were doing Loser-houseparty-slash-sleepover at Bill’s place for that? After Halloween, once your mom and dad have gone home.”

“Well, we are,” Richie says. “But there are some romantic gestures you just don’t make in someone else’s bathroom,” he says, wriggling his hips against the small of Eddie’s back, making Eddie snort with laughter. Richie’s halfway to hard; having Eddie naked and wet and in between his legs is more than enough to get there, but it’s in a kind of lazy, background way where he’s in no hurry to take it anywhere. They’ve got time, all night, all week, the rest of their lives; right now his skin against Eddie’s and the soft sound of Eddie’s laughter is enough.

“Actually,” he says, eventually. “I did want to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, I see,” says Eddie, still facing forwards but Richie can hear the laughter in his voice. “You butter me up with hot baths and scented candles because you _want_ something. I know your games, Tozier.” He loops his arms around Richie’s legs so that both his hands can stroke higher up the inside of Richie’s thighs, because Eddie plays games too, and plays dirty. Richie grinds against him absently, kissing his way along Eddie’s shoulder and up to the underside of his jaw.

“You can say no, if you want, and we never have to talk about it again.”

His voice comes out more serious than Richie intended, and Eddie stops stroking.

“Okay.”

Richie takes a breath; steam and perfumed bubbles and the scent of Eddie’s skin.

“I’ve been thinking about moving.”

Eddie turns to face him so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t snap his neck, and Richie laughs at the expression on his face.

“Wow, I don’t know what you were expecting me to say but I’m guessing it wasn’t that?”

“It was not,” he says, settling back down again, although now he’s leaning to the side, his head against Richie’s shoulder so they’re still somewhat face-to-face. “I thought you were working up to some kind of kink discussion.”

“What?”

“I was thinking about what I’d say yes to,” he says, and Richie’s suddenly speed-running through some _very_ interesting mental images, and Eddie laughs. “No,” he says, pressing his hand over Richie’s face. “That’s _not_ what you wanted to talk about—”

“It is _now_ ,” says Richie, sincerely, but Eddie shakes his head, still smiling. “Later then,” says Richie. “We are fucking pencilling this conversation in.”

Eddie leans forwards and presses their mouths together softly.

“It’s pencilled,” he says. “But...you want to move?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“Do you hate this place that much?” Eddie asks gently. “I know you said it didn’t really feel like home…”

“I don’t hate this place,” he says, truthfully. “I’ve lived in a lot of places and there are definitely ones that have worse memories attached.” The small room in the house-share from his early twenties, where he’d badly misread the intentions of his straight roommate. The apartment in which Jacob had spent so much time listing all the things wrong with him. The big house he’d bought when he’d first made it big in LA where he’d woken up with so many hangovers, sick with what might have happened while he was out of control. “It’s not really about this apartment, this is just a place I ended up, a place to crash between tours. And you…”

“I what?” Eddie prompts curiously.

“You didn’t get a lot of control over your life before, and not a lot of choice either. I want to live in a place we both choose together.”

“Rich…”

“No, listen — we could get a house instead of an apartment, with a garden so you can grow things and garage space to fix up the beat-up old death traps you get so hard over—” He laughs as Eddie pinches him again, and winds an arm around his shoulders to tug him even closer. “It’d be a place that’s, you know, _ours_.”

“Hmm,” Eddie turns his head to the side to press lazy kisses against Richie’s damp collarbones. “I suppose getting our own place would mean we could swim naked in the pool without getting caught by the neighbours.”

“Oh my god,” Richie groans. “It takes me three fucking weeks to convince you to do that — in the middle of the goddamn night — and it’s the one time they’re out there trying it too.” He grins at Eddie and nibbles at his earlobe. “It’s a shame they got so embarrassed, we could have made it a foursome.” He braces himself for another pinch, but Eddie’s face turns thoughtful.

“Hmm, are we having our kink discussion now?” he says. “Jonathan _is_ quite handsome.”

“Wait, what?”

“He’s taller than you too,” he says, grinning wickedly.

“Eddie no! Only I can make jokes like that, I’m too fragile for you to do it.” He manhandles Eddie back onto his chest and then covers his eyes with both hands. “I knew my romance game was lacking, stop noticing people who are better-looking than me!”

They’re both giggling like kids, Eddie trying to wrestle out of Richie’s grip but they slide against each other clumsily in the water until Eddie’s turned around fully, pressed chest-to-chest against Richie and reaching up to kiss him forcefully.

“I don’t know anyone better-looking than you,” he says against Richie’s mouth.

“Well that’s just a big lie, have you _seen_ our friends?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them,” Eddie says mildly, in between sipping little kisses. “It’s definitely what you want? To move I mean, not a foursome with Jonathan and Niles.”

“I…yeah, I think so. The lease isn’t up until April though, we don’t have to rush into anything. Just something to think about.” 

It’s something Richie can’t _stop_ thinking about — going house-hunting, bickering with Eddie over ugly carpets and which direction the bedroom windows need to face. How their names would look side-by-side on a lease, or a _deed_ , something permanent and meaningful and domestic.

“Yeah, okay,” Eddie says peaceably, settling back against Richie and closing his eyes.

Something to tide him over until the _Eddie Tozier_ that still rings in his head to gets too loud to keep in.

*

 **HoHoHope** @hohohope Loser Halloween party with special guest appearance from Mom and Dad Tozier!

 **ReddieLives** @ellabella The way Richie’s parents hug Eddie when they see him at LAX!!

 **HowsThisForFast** @quigley89 They’re literally dressed as each other for Halloween wtf??

*

The weekend of Eddie’s birthday takes place entirely in what was Bill’s house, but seems pretty solidly to now be Bill and Mike’s house, and they spend Friday night on a movie marathon and Saturday night in the basement Bill converted into a game room years ago and then never used, playing foosball and darts and tipsily singing along to the ancient karaoke machine.

The early Fall air is still hot and humid, and Sunday evening has them all spread out on the emerald grass around Bill’s gigantic pool, drinking cocktails, listening to Bev’s playlist through the speakers built-in to Bill’s outdoor bar and eventually ending up in the water to play chicken, shrieking and splashing and fighting like nothing’s really changed since the summer that brought them all together.

Once the sun starts to dip below the hills they retreat into the house, showering and changing into dry clothes before they all curl up in the sitting room, spread over various armchairs and sofas, just like they had the night of Richie’s birthday in the big house Eddie rented in Arizona. Back in March they had spent the evening reminiscing; filling Patty in on stories she hadn’t heard yet and reminding each other of memories that had turned hazy over time, but now the only way they’re looking is forwards. They talk about Stan and Patty renewing their vows next month (“It was the happiest day of my life, but when I looked at our wedding photos all I could think was that you guys should’ve been there”), their vague plan to all take a vacation together next summer, (“Mike was talking about Hawaii.” “Yeah, I have an internet friend who lives on the island of Oahu—” “Hold on, don’t let him draw you guys in with promises of beaches and shit. What horrifying monster lives in the sewers there?” “Well, the locals have this legend—”) and even his and Eddie’s plans to start house-hunting after Christmas, (“You’re gonna kill each other trying to find a place you both like.” “Hey, if we can survive sleeping in a car in the desert, we can survive this”) until Richie’s almost giddy with it, with the thought of their _future_.

Like the first night in Arizona, he’s wrapped up under a blanket with Eddie, but this time Eddie has his head resting on Richie’s chest instead of the other way around, but that’s fine. It’s not like Eddie doesn’t still make his heart hammer, but at least it’s not a secret now.

“So, you guys nervous for tomorrow’s video?” Bill asks, half-heartedly flicking through Netflix to find them a movie.

“Oh! Are you posting your coming out tomorrow?” Patty asks, and then rolls her eyes at herself. “I mean...well...you know what I mean.”

“Yep, tomorrow all our fans wake up broken-hearted to find out Eds is off the market,” he says, and Eddie snorts.

“I don’t think that’s going to be the overwhelming response,” he says, but he doesn’t read many of the comments on their videos or the tweets about them so he doesn’t know _shit_ ; Richie’s gonna have them all jealous as fuck. He can’t wait.

“I think they’re going to be pissed at you for messing with them for the past five months,” says Stan.

“Well, that’s when we tell them it was all Eddie’s idea and he can release a contrite apology video. _I’m sorry, I was just so dick-drunk I had to keep him all to myself_ —”

“Shut up!” Richie’s passable impression of Eddie’s still kind of New-Yorky voice is cut off when Eddie flips over to put his hands over Richie’s mouth, giving Richie a perfect view of his scowl/smile combo. “Shut up, not once did I say that. God, you are so not funny.”

“I am professionally funny,” Richie argues. “You are my number one biggest ever fan.”

“I am _not_ ,” says Eddie, fighting to cover Richie’s mouth again and pressing both his hands over Richie’s entire face in the process. “You suck, I never find you funny.”

“You are smiling right now.”

“No, I’m not,” he says obnoxiously, although he’s mostly given up fighting it now, grinning all over his handsome face. “I’ve never smiled at you once in our entire lives.”

“You’re such a little dickhead,” Richie says, running his hands up underneath Eddie’s t-shirt, teasing his fingertips lightly over his ribs and running a thumb firmly over one nipple, which always gets a good shiver out of him.

“Don’t tickle me,” Eddie says sternly. “Don’t. Do not. Richard I am warning you—”

“ _Warning me_?” Richie crows in delight, and Eddie frowns even as he’s pressing his body firmly into Richie’s. “Whatcha gonna do about it, tough guy?”

“Rich, I will bite you so fucking hard—”

“Pfft!” Richie scoffs. “Don’t threaten me with a good time Eds, you know I—”

“No,” Stan interrupts suddenly. “For the love of god, do not finish that sentence. How did you two idiots get _more_ annoying? I thought working out your sexual tension would make this shit better?”

“Babe,” says Richie, nuzzling into Eddie’s hair. “Did we work out our sexual tension?”

“Yeah,” sighs Eddie, all hostility forgotten in favour of melting against Richie like warm honey. “This morning, remember?”

“Oh yeah...” says Richie dreamily, mainly to annoy Stan but also at the vivid sense memory of Eddie pressing him down firmly into the mattress with his strong arms.

“And last night,” says Eddie, his eyes gleaming. “And Friday afternoon against the kitchen counter while everyone was out.”

Bev shrieks with laughter which drowns out Bill and Stan shouting in protest, and Eddie blushes bright red even though _he’s_ the one that said it, and when Stan throws a pillow at them both he plucks it skilfully out of mid-air and uses it to hide his face.

Bill mutters moodily about his kitchen surfaces being misused for a while, but eventually he picks a film and turns the lights down, and the noise from the television and the hushed conversation of his friends fade into comforting background static; Richie focuses on the sound of Eddie’s heart beating steady and strong. Snuggled under a blanket in their little corner of the room, Richie tugs Eddie a little closer so that they’re chest-to-chest again, feels his own heartbeat thudding fiercely against Eddie’s.

Watching sixteen-year-old Eddie be driven away from Derry in the back of his mom’s car had broken Richie’s heart and it had never had a chance to heal before being dragged away from Eddie’s body under Neibolt had broken it all over again, but now it doesn’t feel broken, it feels _broken in_ — comfortable and warm and ready for use.

“Want to hear a secret?” he whispers, and Eddie hums against his throat, trailing the tip of his nose gently up and down over Richie’s skin. “I’m in love with you. Like...hopelessly, completely, stupidly in love with you. Honestly, it’s kind of disgusting.”

Eddie’s nuzzling ends just under Richie’s ear, and he presses his lips and tongue to the hinge of Richie’s jaw in an indulgent, lazy kiss.

“Gay,” he says quietly. Richie slides his free hand into Eddie’s shorts to pinch his ass, and Eddie’s kiss turns into a gentle bite. “That’s nice,” he says, eventually. “That’s a nice secret. I’m disgustingly in love with you too, by the way, but there’s no way that’s a secret.”

Richie gets both arms around Eddie and squeezes, presses him tight against his chest until their heartbeats are one indistinguishable rhythm.

“Good,” he says, tucking the blanket a little tighter around them. “That’s good.”

*

_It’s hot, just like he remembers — searing sun, dusty path underfoot, the branches in the trees still and steady in the thick humid air. The rushing of the river gets louder as he makes his away along the dirt-gravel track, but he can still hear birds, and crickets chirping and the faded sound of traffic and voices from the nearby town._

_He’s not alone, but there’s no sense of panic as he approaches the bridge, drawing closer to the figure crouched down by the wooden beams, pocket knife in hand._

_His footsteps are quiet but the figure still springs to stand, skinny body immediately taut with panic and face flushed red with heat and exertion, but as he spots Richie his eyes widen and the knife clatters to the ground._

_“Woah,” he takes a step backwards, bumping into the wooden side of the bridge, and Richie can see in his eyes that he’s gearing up to run. He holds his hands up in surrender._

_“I’m not the clown,” he says, and the kid narrows his eyes in suspicion behind his thick-framed glasses._

_“You’re me,” he breathes, looking Richie up and down with an inscrutable expression on his face. “Aren’t you? You’re me when I’m grown-up? I know you are, sometimes we…”_

_“We just know things, yeah,” says Richie softly, staring at his teenage-self in wonder. “I think I’m dreaming.”_

_“No you’re not, you must be here to tell me how to fix things!” There’s urgency in his face and voice — the Losers splintered and Eddie locked away and this kid’s nose still swollen from the fight that broke them apart. “Is that it? You’re from the future to tell me how to kill the clown?”_

_“No,” he says instantly. “No, I’ve seen enough movies to know you never do that. If I tell you anything I’ll wake up and the world will be all backwards and weird. The space-ants will have taken over or Bill will be the tallest loser or something.”_

_“Bill?” His expression changes, the suspicion gone in an instant as he face lights up at the mention of his friend, even though he remembers thinking they’d never forgive each other. “We’re still friends?”_

_“Yes…”_

_“All of us?”_

_“I…yeah…”_

_“Are we…” The kid looks at his feet, kicking awkwardly at the clumps of knotted grass by the side of the path. “Are we still friends with Eddie?”_

_“Well…not exactly…”_

_His face falls in an instant._

_“He finds out, doesn’t he?” He turns very slightly so that Richie can see the carving in the wood — fresh and new — just behind him. “He finds out that we…that we’re…fuck, does he hate us? I bet he hates us, I always knew he would—_ ”

_“Woah, woah!” Richie holds his hands up like he’s trying to soothe a jittery horse, and the kid frowns at him fiercely._

_“Who tells him? When does it happen? Close to your time or...or close to mine?”_

_“Kid, I_ know _I’m not supposed to tell—”_

_“No!” He looks close to crying now, and Richie remembers that summer he had felt close to tears pretty much all the time; whenever he fought with his friends, whenever he thought about the clown, whenever he so much as grazed Eddie’s fingertips with his own. “That’s bullshit! You have to tell me. If he winds up hating me I need to know how much time I have left with him. If it’s soon...does he leave? Does he just leave and we end up stuck in this shithole town forever all alone? Do they all just leave and forget about us?”_

_“Will you take a goddamn breath before you pass out? We don’t still live in fucking Derry.”_

_“We don’t?” The kid sniffs, and scrubs the back of his hand over his face aggressively._

_“No,” says Richie. “We live in California.”_

_“We...we do?” God, the wonder on the kid's face makes him ache; the feeling of glowing, simmering potential inside him, how impossible and beautiful the idea of leaving had always sounded._

_“Yes, we do.” Richie takes a deep breath, and prays this is a dream. “With Eddie.”_

_“With...what? With Eddie? Like..._ Eddie Kaspbrak _Eddie?”_

_Richie rolls his eyes._

_“No, Eddie Van Halen Eddie. Of course Eddie Kaspbrak Eddie, doofus. Short, loud, eyebrows that have a will of their own – sound familiar?”_

_“So...he doesn’t hate us? He knows about it but he doesn’t—” The kid's eyes narrow in sudden suspicion as he looks Richie up and down again. “Aren’t you kinda old to have a roommate?”_

_“That’s not exactly...wait, how old do you think I am?”_

_His kid self looks at him appraisingly, and then shrugs._

_“I dunno...sixty?”_

_“Sixty?” Richie gapes at him. “I will hang you from the nearest tree by your fuck-ugly shirt kid, don’t test me.”_

_“I dunno!” He shrugs defensively. “Older than you should be to have a_ roommate _at least. I get that we're still a mess but I figured Eds would get his shit together eventually. Why does he live with us? Doesn’t he think...” He scratches at the back of his neck uncomfortably and god, the itchy, grimy shame is so familiar. “He doesn’t think we’re like...creepy?”_

_“God...” Richie breathes, and sits down in the grass, leaning his back against the wooden side of the bridge. “I really was a mess.”_

_“Looks like you still fucking are dude,” says the kid, but he sits down next to Richie anyway, digging the toes of his scuffed sneakers into the dirt._

_“Listen, if I tell you something and then I wake up and the fucking clown has taken over the world I’m going to find a way back here and I am going to kick your ass. I don’t give a shit if it’s technically my ass, it won’t stop me.”_

_“Okay,” he says, his voice small and almost serious. He's hunching his shoulders and his jaw is already tense like he’s gritting his teeth; prepared for it to hurt._

_“We still annoy the shit out of him every single day, but he doesn’t think we're creepy and he doesn’t hate us.” He takes a little breath. “And he's not our_ roommate _.”_

_“But you said—” The kid frowns, and then Richie can see the realisation dawn over his face as his eyes are drawn almost involuntarily back up to the carving on the bridge. “Wait...wait, you mean...?”_

_He doesn’t dare ask, Richie knows, Richie remembers exactly how terrifying it is to let yourself hope for something._

_“One day he is going to find out,” he says quietly, “because one day you're going to tell him, and he’s going to love you back so hard it’s going to make every bad thing that ever happened to you seem like meaningless bullshit.”_

_“He...he loves us?”_

_“Yeah...like, a lot. As much as we love him.”_

_“And it’s...it's okay? Like, it’s okay with people that we just...”_

_“Yeah,” he says, with a little smile. “We're just like any other couple; we go grocery shopping and see movies and bicker about what constitutes a healthy breakfast.”_

_He looks away at the swaying trees for a minute while the kid wipes his eyes under his glasses._

_“So we...we're happy?”_

_“Yeah,” he says with a nod. “Takes a bit of time, it's not exactly smooth sailing the whole way but yeah, we're really happy.”_

_“And Eddie? Is he...do we make Eddie happy?”_

_“Yeah kid,” he says, “Eddie’s happy too.”_

_The kid turns towards him, overeager and trembling and he’s probably overflowing with questions but Richie shakes his head silently. The dream is already fading; the edges of his vision turning blurry and dark until he can’t even make out the kid's face and then—_

_—_ he opens his eyes, not to sunshine or the bright summer sky or the sound of a thundering river, but to the indigo darkness and the hum of Bill's air conditioning and the sound of Eddie’s snuffly breathing in his ear.

Richie shifts to try and get his arms around Eddie properly, and Eddie murmurs sleepily as he's jostled by Richie’s movements, before settling himself down on Richie’s chest.

If he squints, Richie can just make out the face of Eddie’s smart watch glowing from the bedside table; almost four in the morning. In just a few hours their latest video will drop and then the whole world is going to know that he’s in love with Eddie Kaspbrak and that, miracle of miracles, Eddie Kaspbrak is in love with him too. Time to see what their life together might look like, what it might be like to just be happy.

“Rich?” Eddie mutters against his collarbone. “Dreaming?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay.” He winds his arm around Eddie’s shoulders to tug him closer, and buries a kiss in his hair. “I’m okay now.”

_Cross my heart and hope to die_

_I’ll see you with your laughter lines_

_Laughter Lines – Bastille_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: What a fun experience writing this was, so challenging and interesting, I can't wait to do it again.  
> Me after seeing the word count on this thing: I'm never writing anything longer than grocery list again in my life.
> 
> I need you all to understand that if this fic had included a) all the parts I also wrote from Eddie's POV to make sure I was keeping track of what was going on in his head, b) all the fun Loser banter sections that got cut for being ultimately plotless and c) the little follow-up set a few months later that I might still post, this could easily have been another 30 or 40k words. I am insane. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with this story! I will either be back soon, or will immediately and permanently retire from fanfiction!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr where I am also [HauntedHotel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hauntedhotel) for further nonsense.


End file.
